


Pain in the Head

by TalentedLoser



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 75,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out slowly.<br/>"Since when do angels get headaches?"<br/>"Since they become human."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this does have a major character death AND it involves cancer. It's as realistic as I could get it to be. So, enjoy?

**x**

_Cover my eyes  
Cover my ears  
Tell me these words are a lie_

**x**

It started out slow. He didn't think anything of it, and neither did Dean. It was a random night, Dean sleeping next to him (they were "close friends", as he would say to those that asked in a public eye, but Cas knew it was more) and he had woken up to nothing. Nothing made him jump out of his dreams—as if he dreamt of anything important anymore—and nothing was making a noise. He just had a slight pain in his head.

Cas groaned. He had never felt such a pain before. It wasn't terrible, but it was like a needle was poking his head over and over again. Was this what Dean called a "headache"? Dean always held his hands to his forehead and rubbed his fingers against his temple, trying to get rid of it. But it was only because he was "hungover" from the alcohol consumed the night before. Maybe that was what Cas had to do. He sat up in bed. He brought his hands to his head and started to rub a few of his fingers in a circular motion. How was this supposed to work out such a pain? He did not understand. But it started to work, in some form of miracle, and he was being brought back to his senses.

He sighed, and looked over at Dean, who was stirring a bit in his sleep. He did not mean to wake up the man next to him, especially since Dean had to get up early for work. Dean worked at a mechanic shop (of course), and he stayed home. But he continued to rub his head as he watched his partner flip over. Eyes showed horror at first, but then he relaxed as he noticed the other sitting upright. "C-Cas?" He rubbed his eyes. "What are you doing?" He sounded groggy.

"I am ridding of a headache, Dean," he whispered. Dean yawned.

"Since," Another yawn, Cas noted. "…since when do angels get headaches?" Cas stopped and dropped his hands to his lap.

"Since they become human," he bluntly put it. He had almost forgotten how long he had been human, but it was almost a year. A year without his Grace, without having to worry about saving the world from some sort of demonic demise—it was nice, to say the least. Him and Dean rarely hunted anymore, and if they did, it was within town (or just on the outskirts of the town, where some spirits roamed). He was still getting used to the Earth realm without his powers, which God graciously took away because he did not want a once rebelled soldier walking around with Grace in his back pocket. They didn't do much of it, though, in case one got injured.

Dean groaned, leaning toward the nightstand. "Here," he grabbed a small bottle. "They're called aspirin. You took them before when you apparently drank the whole liquor store," Cas frowned. He did not like that experience, and he would never do such a thing again. He was perfectly fine drinking on occasion, opposed to what Dean did about once a week. Dean placed the bottle behind him; Cas picked it up.

"How many do I take?"

"One. Two if it's really bad," he said, closing his eyes again. Cas looked down at the bottle. He trusted Dean, with all his life. If he said that the best way to survive an attack was jumping off a bridge or a cliff, he'd jump with him. He twisted the cap off and took out one white capsule. It had little writing on the pill. He did not understand what it meant, but he put it in his mouth and swallowed it dry. It had no taste, which was fine. He wasn't expecting much from the little pill anyway.

Putting the lid back on, Cas let the bottle rest back on the table and he leaned back into the mattress. He felt Dean slightly snuggle against his arm, which his response was leaning his head against Dean's. "Thank you, Dean." Dean hummed against his arm.

He fell back asleep.

**x x x**

In about four days, it would get worse. In the span of those days, too, he would have taken thirteen tablets. And Dean noticed. "Dude, you are still having that headache?" And Cas could only nod as he laid his head against the back of the couch. Dean would leave him like that, and he would come back to a dinner cooked and ready, while he was popping another pill down the hatch. It became a habit, which Dean became worried.

Dean would ask how bad it was. "It is alright," he would mumble, but his head hurt so much. He tried many remedies for getting rid of a headache: rubbing his temple, resting his head on a pillow, and even putting an ice pack on his head. Nothing worked. He tried to mask as much of the pain away from Dean, so as not to worry his partner, but he would notice the frowns he'd receive from Dean when they ate dinner. And Cas knew he had enough to worry about at the garage; he did not need more stress piled on. So he didn't describe the pain as excruciating.

At night, he made sure to have his back turned to Dean, much to his discomfort (he liked sleeping on his stomach). Cas couldn't sleep when the pain was that bad. He would take two tablets before going to sleep, and it would somehow dull the pain, but after a few minutes it would flare again. He struggled to go back to sleep after that. Cas made sure that he would not make any noise nor would he move much in his sleep; he would keep himself huddled close and hold onto the blankets if the pain got worse.

On the last night of the week (he never understood why the pain was worse at night, even though he seemed relaxed in bed) he couldn't take it. He took the aspirins near two hours prior, but it did nothing. It only made things worse. It was like someone was stabbing him in the head numerous times and the one stabbing him refused to let him die. Was it his designed Hell? He contemplated, but it hurt to even think about anything. Cas felt the sharp pains one after another, spiraling through each side of his head, and he held it with his hands. He was almost shaking from the pain before one final stab made him cry out. The back of his head felt the worst, but it was growing everywhere.

He quickly sat up and brought his knees to his chest. He needed something to lean on. Cas wrapped his arms around his legs and let his head hit his knees. He felt like clawing away at something because of the pain, and it felt like it was getting worse. "Cas?" He heard a familiar groggy voice call out. "Cas!" He bit down on his lip. No, he did not want to worry Dean, he did not want to worry Dean…

Dean shot up from the bed and looked at his partner. He looked terrible. He could barely see in the dark at first, but his eyes soon adjusted to see how worn down he looked. The bags under his eyes, the sweat on his body—Dean reached out. He rested a hand on the back and leaned down to take a closer look at Cas's face. His eyes were twitching, rapidly blinking, and his lip was bleeding. He started to worry. "Cas, woah, is it your headache?" He saw him nod uncontrollably. He noticed his partner bring his legs closer to his chest every once in a while, taking in deep breaths so as to draw out the pain.

"It's...it's…"

"If you say it's alright one more time, I'm going to push you out of this bed," Dean whispered. But he didn't have the heart to do something like that, not to him. Not to someone that was obviously suffering from something. Then, he started to hear small groans come from this former angel, ones that were laced with all sorts of pain. He couldn't imagine what he was going through. It looked—it looked terrible. "Hey, hey," Dean pushed the covers away from himself and wrapped his arm around Cas.

Cas didn't pay any attention. The pain was still there. Even as Dean whispered to him, it still hurt to hear anything. "Come here," he heard in his ear. Yes, he thought. Yes, please hold me. Take this pain away from me. Make it go away. Make it all stop. I do not want to feel this way anymore. So he leaned into Dean's arms and rested his head against his chest. He grabbed for dear life onto his shirt, crying at the pain he was feeling. What was this?

Dean sighed. "You might be having a migraine, Cas. They're a total bitch." "Migraine"—Cas would curse them to Hell themselves. Suddenly, he was falling backwards, but he didn't panic. He felt Dean guide him down onto the mattress, both of them resting on their sides. Dean rested his head on top of his angel's, closing his eyes. "It'll go away, Cas. I promise," he whispered. "Just…just breathe."

Cas closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths. The deeper the breaths, though, the more he would feel the pain pulsate in his skull. His teeth were clenched together, he was sure that Dean's shirt was stained with blood, and he dug his fingers into the shirt more. But, as he breathed, he could hear Dean's own breathing hum against his ribcage, something Cas took pride in rebuilding. He would try to match his relaxed breathing, and started to feel the pain dull away, slowly but surely. It must've been at least fifteen minutes before the "migraine" disappeared, and it was only a dull pain in the back of his head. He continued to breathe as much as he could, but his fingers relaxed against Dean.

Dean, however, held him close. He had never dealt with something like this with Cas, and he didn't know how to handle it. He was afraid, but of what? It wasn't like he was dying; he just had a headache. But seeing him experience that pain and seeing him struggle with it—it was a lot. Dean wondered how much Cas had been hiding, but he didn't care about that. He wanted to see him get better. That's all he cared about.

Slowly but surely, Cas started to relax. His head was back to how he could tolerate the pain, and he could finally fall asleep. He could feel Dean relax as well, although they would not tear apart. Dean wouldn't allow it, for one; he was supposed to protect his former angel from things like that. He was now Cas's guardian, returning the favor for all the years protecting him and Sam's own behind.

Dean heard a mumbled "Thank you, Dean" come from Cas, which was followed by relaxed, steady breathing. Dean closed his eyes, and tried to sleep alongside his partner, but he never fell back asleep. He just continued to repeat the same words over and over again in his head, to the point of sharing the pain:

_Just breathe._

**x x x**

"Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the doctors?" Dean leaned against the door of their home. Cas called it "theirs" for many reasons, but when Dean was out in public, he'd call it his and nothing else. It was something about the town not accepting their relationship like other cities have been doing the last few years. Cas had no opinion about the matter because of his angelic background, as he saw past the gender card. Others, however, had prejudice.

Cas shook his head and let a small smile rest on his face. "Relax, Dean. I am okay." And he was, for the most part. The headache was almost completely gone overnight. Maybe Dean had been the cure for his head problems. He would never tell him, though. It would go right to his head.

Dean just looked at him, then nodded. "Alright, well," he opened the door. Cas stood away from him. "If it gets any worse, you do not hesitate to call. You understand?" Cas noticed how stern and serious he was, and all he could do was nod.

"Of course, Dean," he remarked. Of course, Cas was hiding the fact that he'd never call him, especially at work. Dean had made it a sort of rule in the house: "If you ever call me when I'm at work about something stupid, I will kick your ass so fast. Don't call me unless the house is on fire. Got that?" The guys at the garage must tease Dean about something, because he was blushing the entire time.

Dean waved goodbye and closed the door. He was all alone. And he could finally think.

**x x x**

The water below him was as clear as day. It made no rippling effect as he softly breathed, but when he deeply sighed, every once in a while, he'd see little waves sputter out from the water. It wasn't the most pleasant smell in the world, either, but it sure beat the hell out of the last smell he had enter his nose. He had never experienced such a horrendous smell before, and Dean was not around to tell him what it was, or what it meant, for that matter.

One minute, he was cooking something for dinner. It was pizza night, and Cas was trying a new recipe he found online (yes, even he had to learn how to use the "Internet"). Although he knew how to make pizza, he wanted Dean to enjoy something when he returned in an hour. He even wanted to call Dean about what he was making and what kind of toppings he'd enjoy, but Cas refused to pick up the phone. He did not want to learn if Dean would actually beat him senseless.

As he was sprinkling the cheese on the dough, the next minute felt like something cracked open his skull. The stabbing sensation was back, and it was worse. It was a gradual pain, and he didn't think about the dull pain at first. But once the sharp pains came in repetition, he started to become dizzy just standing by the counter. The cheese was getting on the floor, the sink, everywhere, and he had to lean against the sink to catch his breath. He wanted to scream out in agony at the pain—it wasn't like the night before. It was much worse. It was like someone splitting his head in two.

He looked out the kitchen window. There wasn't a soul around in miles, and that's how Dean wanted it. "I want to be alone with someone I care about for the rest of my life without worrying if someone's a hunter or not. Spend this life with me, Cas. We'll make a life out of whatever's out there for us." How he wished there was someone out there now, though. Maybe just a passerby, or even a hunter. He wanted someone to know how much it hurt. But when he opened his mouth, he felt his stomach growl in horrible ways.

He was afraid. What was going on in his body? He knew disease and Pestilence, but how was someone supposed to deal with something like that? How were people not afraid of dying over something like that? Cas closed his mouth as soon as he opened it and looked down at the sink. He felt like he was spinning, but he knew he was standing in one spot. Was he going to faint? He would find out something else, though, as his mouth was forced open to spill out his guts—literally.

He looked down at the liquid that came from his body. Some of it was clear, but there were brown chunks scattered everywhere, too. He had seen Dean do this when he was "smashed", but Dean was more of a mess and let it go wherever he chose. Cas leaned forward to look at the contents more (he was certain he ate that food a few days ago) but quickly leaned back when he smelled the contents. It was foul. Was Dean's…whatever it was…like that? Maybe it was something he ate. But the pain was saying otherwise as he brought his hands to his head to hold his head together.

He always watched as Dean tried to stumble to the bathroom, for whatever reason, and would lean against the toilet. Dean was always in the bathroom making terrible noises when he was drunk, especially earlier in the year when Cas found him. It was easier to get rid of the contents spilled than the sink, Cas supposed. He didn't like reflecting on the past, and reached out to turn the faucet on, watching the water drain the brown chunks away. The foul smell was still in the air, but at least the ghastly sight was disappearing. He turned his head and looked at the pizza. While it didn't have as much cheese as he wanted (Dean would probably comment on how there was too much cheese) he figured he would do his best to cook the dinner. He had to, for goodness sakes. Dean worked hard to keep the house, and all Cas had to do was cook for him ("When you're comfortable enough to have proper conversations with people in town, then you can get a job. Otherwise, I'm not associating myself with 'I was by God's side for many millennia'".).

He kept the water going as he leaned toward the pizza. He was still very dizzy, for some reason, but he managed to grab the pan the pizza was on. It was hard to hold, especially it being so heavy—was it always that heavy? Opening the oven, he slid the pan inside and closed it back up again. Fifteen minutes, he thought. That's all he had to get through before the pizza would be done. Then he could go to the bathroom. He closed his eyes and started to count the seconds, despite the pain in his head wishing he would stop.

Cas would spew out his stomach halfway through cooking the pizza, and he would watch the chunks spin down the drain. This is not normal, he thought. Was it the after effects of God taking his Grace? He agreed that it was the only way he was feeling that way. Otherwise, there was no earthly explanation for such a phenomenon. He had no recollection of having such pains when he was an angel, and since he had become human, nothing of the sort had existed. He closed his eyes and started to breathe. Perhaps Dean's words would work again and he would—no. It was making it worse. He held his head and leaned against the sink.

Just a few more minutes, just make it a few more minutes—

He was feeling weak. The back of his head was the worst pain ever imaginable, and the rest of his head was pounding. When he opened his eyes, he saw the water getting blurry, and he felt like falling over at any moment. He kept his grip on the sink when he felt his knees start to buckle. He needed to stay up. Dean would be home any moment, and he did not need to come home to Cas on the ground in pain. He would probably smell the foul smell once he came in, though, but Cas hoped the pizza would mask it. It actually smelled quite well.

Oh, the pizza. He took in a few deep breaths as he turned to the oven again, making sure he could stand on his own for a minute or two. His knees felt like jelly, but he figured he could handle it. As he gripped the door, he felt like it was easy to pull it down, and he grabbed a plain white oven mitt. Cas learned the hard way about the mitts through Dean and a little incident with food, which he still had the little scar on his finger. Dean scolded him for doing something reckless, but laughed about it soon after. "Cas, I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

He slumped over and grabbed the pan with all his might and quickly pulled it out. It felt like a ton of bricks, but he managed to keep it level when carrying it to the counter. The pizza was, hopefully, done, and Cas threw it on the counter. It made a loud crashing sound against the top, and he winced. Loud noises hurt, he thought. He closed the oven, turned the knob ("Always turn the oven off, Cas, no matter what," Dean first said to him about cooking) and stood there for a moment.

How was he going to get to the bathroom? The pizza was making him sick, he could barely look at anything without wondering if the couch was really moving toward the bedroom, and he felt sick to his stomach. He took a deep breath. He had been stabbed with an angel sword before—he could do something like walking to the bathroom. At first, it wasn't too bad. He could manage a few steps without any stumbling. Then came the difficulty of actually standing and walking at the same time.

Ten minutes and a few falls to the floor later, he was there. He knew how he used to laugh at Dean for looking like that when he was drunk (not early on, but when Dean came home from a "guys night out"), but it was the worst feeling beside the headache—or "migraine". Either way, he closed the door and sat down next to the toilet. And then he waited.

He didn't know how long he was waiting for more to come out of his body (the pain was making it very difficult to keep track of time), but he heard Dean come home. A set of keys jingled in the lock, followed by a few obscene words from Dean—he'd have to remember to fix the door. He needed to stay as silent as possible before making an appearance to Dean, however; Cas was not the type to ask for help like Dean was. He would show that he was able to be a human, for once. But it was hard to be quiet when his throat decided otherwise.

After so many hours at the garage, Dean opened the door. "Damn it," he mumbled, as he tried to get the keys out of the lock. With a quick jolt, he pulled it out and looked around. He expected to see Cas standing in the kitchen to welcome him home, but all he saw was a slight mess in the kitchen with a pizza on the counter. Dean raised an eyebrow as he shut the door, and looked around. "Cas?" No response. It wasn't like Cas to go out and do something, but perhaps he went out to the town to get some food. He always liked to go on a walk once in a while. Maybe his head was feeling better. Dean felt a little relieved at the thought and walked over to the food.

A smile was on his face. Pepperoni, sausage, and a load of cheese on one pizza—Cas sure knew how to make him happy. He leaned forward to take a whiff of the pizza. It smelled really good, and he was sure it tasted really good, too. He took another chance to smell it. God, if he could only but drool on the food—

But then there was something else. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was very distinct from the pizza. He took another whiff. Yep, it was still there. What the hell was it, though? He looked around. He didn't see any other food lying around. He looked down at the oven. It was off. Okay, so it wasn't food— _good._ He looked at the sink and rummaged around the little bit of dirty dishes on the left side. He smelled them. Nope, not them. He bent down and opened a cupboard, to see if the trash was full—nothing. But he could still smell it.

Dean scratched his head. It was bothering him. What if it was a dead animal? "If I have to deal with another dead rat again," he muttered to himself. He leaned against the sink. "Okay, so it's not the dishes," his eyes ran over to the white bowls still sitting there. He looked back at the empty side. "It's not the trash, and it's definitely not that delicious looking pizza over there," he didn't even want to look at that perfection. It was already torture that he had to suffer with that smell—

Then, he saw something in the sink. It was small, but very distinct against the white porcelain. He dug his finger in the drain and pulled it out—a few bits of it. It was brown. "What the…" he took a closer look at it. Was it—he took one whiff. Yep, he thought, that's vomit, as he gagged a bit himself. "That is just disgusting," he said, turning the faucet on. He washed the little chunks off his finger and grimaced as it went down the drain.

He'd have to talk to Cas when he came home. He glanced at the clock on the oven; 5:37 P.M. Usually Cas was home for dinner. Where—

Then, he heard a cough. It was small, but it was enough to make Dean spin around. He always hated silence, especially in his own home, when him and Cas usually had conversations for no reason whatsoever, but a sudden noise without anyone around was worse. What if a hunter had found them? "Cas?" He called out; no response. He opened the nearest drawer and felt around—a knife would do. What he'd kill for one of his guns, though. He started to walk out of the kitchen to the bedroom, where the door was slightly ajar. Please let there be no blood, please let there be no blood…

He opened the door, knife against the door. There wasn't any blood, but the blankets were a bit tossed on the ground, something unusual. Cas usually made the bed when Dean left—maybe he took a nap. Was he hearing things? He looked around the room. Nothing else seemed out of place. The aspirin bottle was still on the nightstand; the blankets did seem like someone could've slept there recently, although Cas must've not moved from that spot the whole time; his gun was still by his side of the bed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except the bathroom door was closed. He dropped to the floor and lied on his stomach, trying to look inside through the crack on the bottom. He saw light, and a bit of shadow.

"Cas?" He tried again.

"Dean."

The voice sounded weak. Another cough entered the air. Dean rushed to his feet and walked over to the door. He let his head rest against the door, trying to hear anything going on in the room. "Hey, I'm home, Cas. Are—Are you okay?"

Cas was sweating. He had tried to get rid of something in his stomach for what felt like an hour (it was only twenty minutes) but every time he opened his mouth, a cough would come out, and his head would start to hurt again. Over and over again, the pain kept getting worse. He swallowed and opened his mouth. "Yes," he whispered. He wasn't okay. He had white knuckles from holding onto the shower curtain, had pains in his stomach and head, and couldn't see straight even sitting down. But Dean didn't need to know.

Dean listened to the silence. He hoped another cough would come out so he could go in there, but he didn't know if Cas was actually vomiting or just on the toilet doing his business. He didn't know what to do, but he needed to get rid of the awkward silence. "Hey, so, I saw the pizza on the counter. Looks really good."

Cas smiled. He was glad, really glad. Even through his pain, he could make Dean happy. "Good," he whispered back. He watched Dean's feet on the other side of the door shuffle. He must be smiling; he always did that when he smiled.

Dean looked at the doorknob. He just wanted a peek inside, that's all, but he knew otherwise. It must've been the door that made him sound so horrible, and he felt hopeful that he was okay. Dean tapped on the door. "Yeah, well, you're an awesome cook, Cas. It looks great." Nothing. Dean cleared his throat. "Okay, so—when you're done in there, you can come join me out there, yeah? I don't think I can eat it all by myself." He doubted it, but it was something to lighten up the mood, whatever the mood was.

Cas opened his mouth to say "Okay", but he felt his stomach churning again. No, not right now. Not when Dean's outside the door. Wait until he goes out to the kitchen, or until he walks away. But he just watched as Dean stood outside (for good reason, as he was still doubtful about what he was doing in the bathroom) and he couldn't hold it back. He could feel his stomach coming up his throat again, the liquid wanting to come out of his mouth. The pain made him double over the toilet as he coughed again, some of it splashing inside.

Dean heard it all. And Cas knew that in a few seconds, that door would whip open and he would be standing there, wanting to help.

And there he was, in the doorway, looking down at a vomiting Cas, tired and worn out from all the pain. Dean watched in horror at seeing his partner weakly hunched over the bowl, vomiting up some kind of liquid from his body. His face was full of sweat, the bags under his eyes were really dark—he was really pale. The only things that were bright were those eyes of his, and even those were starting to get a bit dull.

Cas reached up to the sink for support. He needed to get to his feet. He needed to show that he was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Dean watched on as Cas rose to his feet for a second, turning to him and trying to take a step. But as he made the first step, his knees started to buckle, which made Cas start to fall. He couldn't hold onto the counter like he wanted, not with Dean around. He wasn't okay. He was far from it.

"Cas!" Dean ran over to him and put his arms under Cas's, trying to hold him up. He seemed like dead weight, however, as they both started to fall to the ground. Dean made sure Cas would not get hurt, so he hit the ground with most of the force hitting his knees. He groaned, but he managed. Sitting upright, he held Cas in his arms, watching him struggle to grab onto anything. He was scared. Cas was fine in the morning. He was okay then. What happened?

Cas looked up at Dean, seeing the worry on his face before feeling lightheaded again. He wanted to say how sorry he was for putting him through that, but he was afraid to open his mouth. Dean took sight at the water building up around his eyes, almost understanding what Cas wanted to say. Cas would try, though, and he would make a valiant effort in Dean's eyes. "Dean…" he heard the struggling breath come out. He just stared. "It…hurts…" He saw Cas's hand grab at his work shirt, but he couldn't really grab it anymore. He was really weak. Dean held him for all he could.

"It'll be okay, Cas. We'll go to the doctor tomorrow."

**x x x**

Cas did not like the doctor. For one thing, it was boring. There was nothing to do but stare at others that were sick or dying and waiting for someone to call out your name to know why you were sick or dying. Everyone kept staring at him, too, as if he was definitely going to die. The nurses were of no help, either, as they just gaped at his appearance. It was not his fault that Dean had to dress him, and that he was still sweating from the pain, even though he took four aspirins in the course of six hours (Dean wondered how he wasn't overdosing, but Cas shrugged it off).

Dean flipped through a magazine. It looked like a sports magazine. "Come on," he mumbled; he was getting impatient. Page after page turned, and he was bouncing his leg up and down. Cas glanced at the clock: 9:04 A.M. His appointment was at 9:00 A.M. Cas leaned over to look at the magazine with him, and Dean just looked at him. "You okay?"

He nodded. "For the most part," but instead of reading the magazine, he just leaned his head on Dean's shoulder. Most of the people in the lobby started to whisper, but Cas tuned them out as he focused on getting the pain away. He focused on the night before. During the night, Dean held him so he could get a little better (of course, Dean put him to bed before actually going to bed himself. Something about not making the pizza go to waste was more important than helping Cas) and it worked, for the most part. The back of his head was killing him, but the rest of the pain seemed to go away after a few hours of lying there. Dean would talk to him about the day at the garage, and Cas listened. He didn't mind. He liked the stories of him at the garage; it made Dean happy.

The pain was coming and going in waves, and Dean just nudged his partner with his own head. He didn't say anything; he just continued to flip through the pages of the magazine. Cas was sure there were people staring at them because of how they were, but Dean practically hugged him through the doctor's office when they arrived. He figured public displays of affection would go out the window after that (he still wondered if the threat of making a call to the garage held).

"Dean?" a woman called out. Cas opened his eyes and saw a woman in blue stand at the doorway opposite them. She was looking around, but she was clearly attentive to the two men across from her. Dean rose from his seat and grabbed Cas's hand, throwing the magazine on the table ahead of them.

"Come on," he whispered. There were other whispers—from the women, of course—and they were most likely talking about Dean's behavior with Cas, but there were more important things to worry about than two men having a relationship together.

It was absurd, anyway. Why did love have to be so gender specific? Cas was neither a man nor woman, but just in a man's body. Dean talked about "soul-mates" and having some reasoning behind the two of them meeting and being together. He didn't think much on it. The whispers just bothered him.

The nurse led them to a room down the hall, before waving them into a room. "Here you are. You're in this room." Cas had never been in a doctor's room before. It was—weird. There was a really high bed to the right, two chairs next to this small desk, which had a chair for itself, and there were a few cupboards lying around. There were also medical instruments he was familiar with from the past. He heard the door closed at Dean sat down in a chair. Cas stood next to him, hands still together. He wasn't sure if it was Dean trying to calm him down, or for Dean calming himself down. Either way, it was a little comforting.

The woman flipped through the clipboard in her hand and just smiled. "Okay, um…" she was stumbling on his name.

"Castiel," Dean remarked. She blushed. Great, Cas thought. Now the girl liked him.

"O-Oh, right," she stammered out. Dean just smiled. Cas shook his head. "Now, how has your blood pressure been?"

Cas just blinked. "Blood pressure? Why would I need that checked?"

She nodded. "Yes, um…"

Cas looked to his partner. "Look, nurse," Dean seemed irritated. "We just need to see Dr. Barman for a quick visit. Is it really necessary to take his blood pressure?"

The girl blushed. Always so good with words, Dean, Cas thought. "O-Oh, I-I suppose not…" she trailed off for a moment before talking to the both of them. She must've been new. "I-I'll go get him right away." And out she went. "Yeah, you do that," Cas heard Dean whisper to no one in particular.

Dean looked at their hands. "Hey," he whispered. Cas looked down, meeting the others' eyes. Dean noticed how much healthier he looked. He wasn't as pale as the night before, and he wasn't sweating as much, either. He still had bags under his eyes, but at least he ate something—maybe that's what was making him pale. "How are you feeling?"

"I am alright," he replied. "I am a little weak, and my head still hurts, but I do not feel like…vomiting." Dean taught him that word. He was a little disgusted that such a word existed, but at least he could put a name to something.

"Oh, that's great, Cas," Dean laced it with sarcasm. "So much improvement in only 24 hours. How do you do it?" Cas frowned.

"I did not wish this on myself, Dean."

Dean leaned forward, squeezing the hand. Cas squeezed back. "I know, I know. And I wouldn't want it wished on you, either. But, seriously, a week with one headache? That's not normal, is it?"

Cas shrugged. "I do not have an answer." Dean looked up to his former angel and wanted to say something else, but he heard the doorknob start to turn. He took his hand away—Cas stepped back. He rose from the chair, which made Cas turn his head to the door. A man dressed in white appeared. He had a red tie underneath his white coat, along with what appeared to be in a black suit. Short, brown hair on his head, with a little stubble on his chin; he appeared older.

Dean held out his arm. "Ah, Dean Winchester," Dr. Barman took the hand and shook on it. Dean smirked. "It has been far too long. How long has it been since I last saw you? Four years ago?"

Dean shrugged. "What can I say, I have a clean bill of health." Lie, thought Cas. He kept his mouth shut, though, as the two conversed. Judging by the way Dean relaxed around the doctor, and how the doctor shows great gratitude for him (for some reason unknown), he could only guess that the two of them had known each other for a long time. They spoke as if they were family. And it felt as though he was on the outside of the family, watching as others connected—and he was left with Dean as his only family.

Dean laughed, then flicked his eyes over to Cas. "Ah, should we get this appointment going?" The doctor let his gaze rest on Cas, who felt a little intimidated by the man. He seemed to know a lot. He turned back to Dean. "What can I do for you today, Dean? Check-up?"

He shook his head, holding out his hands in defense. "Nuh uh, not for me, doc," he nodded over to Cas, still standing next to Dean. "It's Cas." The doctor turned around and looked at him again. He felt as though he was being violated. What was this man thinking?

Dr. Barman sat down in his chair. "Castiel, eh? Part of a religious family?"

Dean shot him a look. "You could say that," Cas replied. A little bit of tension grew between the group.

Dr. Barman just nodded, humming in agreement. "Now, you say you are getting headaches?"

Cas nodded. "Yes. They hurt."

The doctor let out a large laugh. Dean kept a straight face, and Cas wondered if he said something wrong. He looked to Dean, who said nothing. "Yes, I suppose they do," the doctor replied. He moved around the two to the chair (he would have to see if Dean wanted a chair like that for the home) and spun to look at both of them. "Come, now, on the bed." The doctor pointed to the brown bed in the room. Cas looked at Dean, and he just nodded; he quickly obliged. Dean stood next to him, placing his arm behind Cas (it was resting on the bed, though, in order to not pass judgment around the office). "How much do they hurt?"

"A lot." Cas quickly replied. "It hurts to think, and I cannot sleep at night. I have maybe gotten 10 hours of sleep in the last four days." Dean raised an eyebrow. It couldn't have been that small of a number, he thought. Dean watched as Cas looked up at him, worried that he would be scolded for something like that. There was a tinge of sadness in the eyes of the beholder. "I have taken many aspirins for the pain, but it does not help me."

Dr. Barman hummed. "Any other symptoms?"

Dean cut in before Cas could speak. "Dizziness, nausea, vomiting, and he can barely walk on his own."

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "It sounds like a migraine, Dean."

Cas brought a hand to his head and started to rub it, hoping to get some of the pain away (it was working a little). "How long do these migraines last?"

"Well," he sighed. "They are only supposed to last two days. But it seems like it's lasting a little longer in your case. I'd say, for you, probably another day or two. Has the pain gotten gradually worse over time?"

"Yes," Dean replied. Cas was grateful for Dean responding for him. He was feeling a little nauseated again, hoping that he would not vomit on the poor doctor. "At first it was just one aspirin at the time. Then, hell, he almost took down the whole bottle in a week."

The doctor nodded. "Right," he remarked. "Well," he seemed a little discouraged—the whole room seemed discouraged at the visit. Cas felt a little silly for having Dean take the day off for something like that, but he needed to get his head better—at least, that's what Dean suggested. Dr. Barman stood from the chair and opened a cupboard, pulling out some kind of bottle on the third shelf from the top. "There's not much you can do. I'll give you this," he held it out to both Dean and Cas; it was another bottle of aspirins. "They are rather expensive nowadays, and we are always overstocked here. It should help dull the pain. Otherwise, stay in a darkened room away from a lot of noises, and keep a nice cool cloth on your head. That's all you can do."

Dean let his hand shoot back to the doctor, shaking his hand once more. Cas did not move. He just stared at the bottle. How many more of these pills would he have to take? They were not helping him, but apparently they were. How did this doctor know what was wrong with him? He would have to trust the doctor, despite what he had given as a diagnosis. "Thank you, doctor." Dean said. The doctor nodded, said something about anytime, and casually walked out of the office. Dean turned to Cas.

"I do not know about this, Dean." Dean knew Cas felt defeated by something as simple as a migraine. Dean frowned.

So was he. "I know."

**x x x**

For the first time in a week, they peacefully slept together.

**x x x**

Dean did not like the idea of leaving him alone. "But you're sick, Cas! The job doesn't need me all the time!" Dean felt terrible for yelling at someone in a _bed_ that was supposed to be resting for a few more days. Definitely heartless, he thought.

Cas sighed, shaking his head. "But you enjoy the job, Dean. I would not want to take you away from something you enjoy."

"I enjoy your company, though,"

"I think that counts as a 'chick flick moment', Dean."

Dean shook his head. The bastard was still a smartass when he was having some terrible migraine. Then again, Cas made it a point to be a smartass around Dean, especially when he was drunk ("I think the girl got the hint and did not like the message"). The dude was a dick when he wanted to be.

Dean walked over to the bed, resting against the side. He looked down at his partner. Cas still looked absolutely exhausted, but at least he had gotten some sleep during the night. Dean could feel him in his arms trying to grab onto something as the pain came and went throughout the night. But every time Dean looked at Cas, he was asleep. It was something to be relieved about.

He rested his hand on top of Cas's. "That phone better be by your side at all times. And no getting up from this bed unless you have to go to the bathroom. Got it?"

Cas nodded. "Of course."

"I mean it," he said, squeezing his hand. "I don't—I will text you every hour, and if I do not get a response in 10 minutes, I will drive back here and make sure to kick your ass if you're anywhere but here or there," he nodded his head toward the bathroom.

"I understand," Cas replied. And he did. He was not going to try anything now. He needed rest, and he would get rest. He was sure of it. Dean took in a deep breath as he squeezed the hand again, before releasing it from his grasp.

"Alright," he whispered. "Remember, you better respond to me when I text you. Or I swear to God, Cas—"

"I will do so, Dean." And even though it was a terrible idea, his former angel had just ordered him to go to work instead of take care of him. And Dean felt terrible once more.

**x x x**

_9:12 A.M._

_Received text: almost had a car fall on top of me. regretting sending me to work?_

_9:13 A.M._

_Sent text: No._

_9:15 A.M._

_Sent text: I do, however, miss you. Would you like for me to call you?_

_9:19 A.M._

_Received text: I swear to god, Cas, if you do._

**x x x**

_10:55 A.M._

_Received text: i'm prepared to throw my wrench at my supervisor._

_10:58 A.M._

_Sent text: :-/ You need the job, Dean._

_10:59 A.M._

_Received text: you're right—the car will probably crush him._

**x x x**

_11:22 A.M._

_Received text: what do you want for dinner?_

_11:24 A.M._

_Sent text: I do not know. Soup sounds good right now._

_11:25 A.M._

_Received text: really? I would've guessed you would've said a burger. well. soup it is._

**x x x**

_1:04 P.M._

_Received text: a nice mustang just came into the shop. I might be in Heaven._

_1:05 P.M._

_Sent text: You have already been to your Heaven, Dean._

_1:06 P.M._

_Received text: don't ruin this for me._

_1:08 P.M._

_Sent text: Okay._

**x x x**

_2:41 P.M._

_Received text: if I have to answer the "where were you yesterday" question one more time, I really will throw a wrench. just fyi._

_2:55 P.M._

_Received text: Cas?_

_3:02 P.M._

_Received text: I'm on my way home._

_3:07 P.M._

_Text deleted_

**x x x**

A beeping noise to his left, his arm hurt from something sticking inside of him, and he opened his eyes to one big bright light ahead of him. Was he in Heaven? No, Heaven was not a place where the lights burned his eyes. The Heaven he was used to was ten times dimmer. He closed them again; it hurt just thinking about the lights. Speaking of pain, why did his lip hurt? And his headache was tolerable—where the hell was he? He opened his eyes again and stared at the light. He wanted to reach out and touch it, see what was around him instead of that, but when he tried to reach for it, some wires kept him tied down. Needles upon needles were in his veins, his arm looked a little bloodied, and—was that a heart monitor?

He knew where he was—a hospital. He had seen that Autistic man come into one every few months, to get everything checked out. But, why was he there? And, for that matter, who brought him there? Everything was cloudy. There was no reason that someone with a mere headache would be weak enough to be brought to the hospital. He lowered his arm. One minute, he was texting Dean about something, and he was about to text him back again around 3 P.M. when something occurred. It never happened before, but something made him lose control of his hands. His arms started to shake, and he tried to stop them, but soon, he blacked out.

He remembered waking up to Dean—Dean, he thought. Oh, it made sense. He felt even worse, especially seeing Dean's face running to him in shock and horror. "Cas! You gotta stay with me, you gotta stop this right now!" Dean did everything to keep his head still and he looked too worried for the likes of Cas. He hated that look hovering over him, hands on his head, trying to make him stop. Perhaps he was having a "seizure". He had seen the Autistic man have a few once before, and it might have felt similar. But Cas wasn't too sure; he couldn't really think.

But staring up at his partner made everything worse. He must have tried to say something, but all he could taste was the blood in his mouth and his teeth grinding against the others. Dean looked broken and worn down from it all. And now he was in a hospital. He wanted to tear out the needles in his arms, though, as they were becoming rather itchy. Plus, he wanted to know how Dean was coping after all the tragedy around. As he reached for them, a hand stopped him. Red nails, clean hands—a woman.

He looked up. Sure enough, it was. She held a clipboard (before setting it on the tray next to him), blonde hair tied up in a small ponytail, and she had a great frown on her face. "Castiel, you mustn't tear these out!" Her grip was firm, her eyes were sharp, so he pulled away. She let out a sigh. "It's good to see that you are awake. We didn't know if you were going to wake up soon or not. Seems like you owe a lot to your friend," she whispered, picking up her clipboard again.

Friend; Dean. He tried to speak, but he was afraid of being scolded by someone like the woman. She seemed nice, but how she looked when he tried to take out some simple needles—he did not want to be more of a bother.. She clicked her pen and started to write something down. "I'm your nurse for the evening, Sophia. A doctor will come in for a few minutes to give you a check-up. Is there anything I can get you?" She tore her eyes away from the paper (which Cas wanted to know what she was writing) and gave a small smile. He shook his head. "Your friend—I will guess he is your friend—is outside. It's rather cold out there, though; we'd hate to see another patient coming through here. Would you like me to tell him you're awake?"

Cas shook his head, despite wanting to see him with all his might. He would, however, see that look again, and possibly see something more. He'd rather not deal with it, not yet. "I understand. A lot of turmoil in the last couple days for the two of you. I'm surprised he's yet to leave the hospital." He raised an eyebrow. Couple days? How long was he there? She dotted something on the paper and gave a smile. "I will be back shortly with the doctor. You stay put." She started to walk away, but turned around. "And don't think about tearing those needles out."

He understood. And he was back to being alone with the light above his head again, which he couldn't stare at for a long time, as it hurt his head. So he turned away and looked around the room. Being adjusted to the light more, he saw medical instruments of all sorts scattered around (the Greeks used those, he noted), machines by his head (heart monitor, vitals, IV, he noted more), and some dirty gloves thrown to the floor. He wondered if something happened to him while he was down for the count, but he looked away to other rooms around. There were children in the next room over with their parents in the beds—bloodied sheets, many more machines, and tears. A car accident, perhaps, and Cas wished nothing but the best for the family. He turned his head and looked in the other room; police officers stood at the end of the bed, talking to some guy. He had a nasty gash on his head, and he was screaming about how he didn't shoot someone. The police thought otherwise.

"Doctors!" he heard a little kid shouting. He turned back to the family. Rapid heartbeat pounding through their chest made their monitor race against time. Three to four doctors rushed into the room and pushed the children away, yelling obtuse language through the air. Cas recognized some of it, but it was hard to keep up with them. They pumped medicine after medicine into the woman, as the children cried for their mother. "What's wrong?" one of them shouted, but the nurses were pushing them outside, telling them that they shouldn't see something like that happen. They continued to scream for their mother, even after the monitor showed a flat line. And just as the doctors were putting their hands on her chest, a curtain was pushed in front of the door.

"We can't have you seeing that, can we?" Sophia was back, this time with two doctors. He pointed to the two of them, then back to the door, and Sophia just smiled. "They have enough personnel for one person. We can manage to give you two doctors." Cas sighed and looked at the two men standing in white coats. One of them was tall, white hair, glasses, and flipping through a clipboard; the other was short, younger, jet black hair, and spouting out medical information about him. Cas kept his eyes on the older doctor.

"Castiel, is it?" He nodded. "A religious family, I presume?" He nodded again. This town really knew their angels, he thought. "I'm Dr. Heman, and that is Dr.—well, his last name is hard to pronounce. Just call him Leo."

"BP's 130/85," a deep voice next to him said. Was that good or bad? Cas was never good with medicine; he could rebuild a human back to life, but give him something like blood pressure and he was lost. He looked over at the young doctor, who was now fiddling with the wires, and heard the older doctor talk.

"So, seems like you had a seizure," he turned his head. Great deduction, he thought. "You bit your lip pretty hard, too. You didn't bite through the skin, but you might have a slight scar when it heals." That's why it hurt to move it so much. "Do you remember anything at all from that day?"

"A little," he managed to say before feeling more discomfort from his mouth. The doctors looked at each other, but gave a slight nod. The older doctor stepped forward and handed the clipboard to Sophia, who was standing by. Suddenly, the hands of Dr. Heman were on his head, rubbing in circular motions. Cas would be lying if he said it didn't feel great. He closed his eyes.

"And how does your head feel? Are the painkillers working?" Working a bit too much, he thought, as he was feeling drowsy again. He just gave a slight nod of the head as the doctor worked his way to the back of his skull. The pain was getting worse and worse as the circular motions got closer and closer, but the doctor stopped before he went too far. "Pain in the Posterior Fossa." Sophia wrote it down. How did the doctor know he was in pain? And what was a "Posterior Fossa"? It was the skull; how many parts could there be? The doctor leaned away and smiled. "Don't worry, Castiel, we'll have you in and out of here before you know it." He looked to Leo, a frown on his face. "Set up an MRI, bring me back when you have the results." Cas watched the older doctor give him one more smile before turning his back to leave.

An MRI—he had an idea of what it was, but he did not understand why he needed one. Sophia wrote it all down on the clipboard, and smiled up to Cas. "We'll be leaving you alone now, Castiel. Enough medical mumbo-jumbo for you for a while, yeah? Besides, someone else would like to see you." He turned his head to Sophia, who gave a sort of quick nod to the door, and looked out the window. Standing next to the doctor, talking about something (probably going over what he just said to Cas, he imagined), was his partner.

Dean.

**x x x**

"Cas."

"Hello, Dean."

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay."

"Shut up, you can't be feeling okay. You were practically dying, dude."

"I know. I am sorry."

"You couldn't have controlled something like that, you idiot. Scared me, though, seeing you twitch like that with blood coming out of your mouth? Don't do that again."

"Okay."

"I mean it. Hospitals already make me nervous enough, Cas. Seeing you like that when I got home—that's not alright."

"I did not ask to come here."

"And what, keep you at home where God knows what'd happen? I am taking my chances with the hospital than seeing you stain our sheets with blood."

"I could have managed with the aspirins."

"Oh, yeah, that worked out just fine. How was that seizure there?"

"Dean, you hate hospitals, though."

"It sure as hell beats seeing you twitch on the bed like that."

"Is that what you thought when—"

"Don't even say it, Cas. We're not going to talk about that here."

"Okay."

"Anyway, hear you're going to an MRI later. Hope that's soon."

"I am aware. I have some knowledge of it, but what is it?"

"Oh, it's when they look in your head. Maybe your ego is becoming so inflated that you're killing yourself with a headache. Maybe all those compliments about your food is making you sick."

"What is it like?"

"I don't know, I've never had one before."

"Come with me."

"Yeah."

**x x x**

Dean had never seen Cas so afraid. Maybe when Lucifer was rising, and he had to deal with the archangels, perhaps then. Cas hadn't any idea of what was going on, what it would feel like—and Dean wasn't much help, especially since he didn't know how it felt in the first place. He just had to stare at him on the table surrounded by a big white machine as Dean wore a blue vest to be by his side.

Even on the elevator with a couple doctors by his side, he could feel Cas grip his hand, waiting for some sign of help. And the entire ride up with him and the tense doctors kept him staring at the red numbers that grew and grew. He wished the elevator didn't stop, but it had to. One small step toward knowing what was wrong with his old angel, he guessed. And when they entered the room with Cas on the stretcher, a lone, "What is this?" echoed through the air. Dean just looked at him and listened to the doctors tell him about the MRI machine. They promised it would be painless, promised that he would be in and out of there in no time. They both took a deep breath together, hoping that it was all true.

A voice over the intercom came from above. "Alright, we're going to start." Cas looked over at Dean, who nodded to those behind the glass. A doctor was in the room with them, but he had no idea who it was.

"Dean," he heard whispered. He looked down.

"Just breathe, Cas. Don't worry about anything. Think happy thoughts, like a rainbow or something." The machine started to move him into the camera. Dean felt his hand crushed under the other's grip. Dean leaned against the machine as it started making noises. "Just close your eyes."

At least, that's what he told himself to do. He wasn't sure if Cas could hear anything as the machine started to go. He could hear the gears whirring inside the MRI circulating his body, picture after picture shown from his head. And all he could feel was Cas's heavy breathing and tense grip on Dean's hand. Dean bit down on his lip and waited for the machine to stop so he could tell him it was okay.

But he wasn't too sure about that, and kept his eyes and mouth shut.

**x x x**

Another night was upon the two in the hospital room. They moved him to another room, because they needed the bed for someone else ("You're well enough to be moved from the trauma room," the female nurse commented. "Normally, you'd be in the ICU, but they're chalk full, too. This'll have to do."). They shared it with a family of four, a father and three kids. The kids were crying when Dean sat there, talking about their mother of some sort. The dad wasn't awake, and the girl (she appeared to be the oldest) was the only one by the dad's bedside. She was holding onto her father's hand with her eyes closed, possibly listening to the other two younger kids crying about their mom. She was mumbling something, perhaps praying of some sort.

Dean looked down at Cas. He thought about prayers, but he had a terrible track record with God. So he just watched Cas sleep. He said something about how the painkillers were making him really sleepy, so Dean ordered him to get some rest. At first, he protested ("I do not need sleep. I need to get home"), but, soon enough, his eyes were shut and he fell asleep. He made a comment about the family when they arrived, too: "She is gone. I watched them work on her. Where would they move her?" Dean didn't reply. The two boys in the chairs just wept.

He, on the other hand, did not want to sleep. He was still paranoid that he'd wake up and see Cas twitching again, blood coming out of his mouth, and unable to respond. He'd look at Dean with voided eyes and just stare, wanting to say something. And when the twitching would stop, he'd fall asleep, a dead weight to the world.

Dean leaned forward and let his hands fall over his face. He probably looked terrible. Little sleep over the last few days, barely getting a shower in (the hospital graciously let him take one somewhere, but he forgot where it was), and worrying about his former angel and the expenses were taking quite the toll. Even on the first day when they took Cas from his arms, he was a mess. "I need some help! Please!" He didn't know if he cried when he yelled that to the doctors around. He was sure there was a fine line between panic and manic when he rushed through the door. When they told him to wait in the lobby, he couldn't help but smack his hand against the glass of the door and break down.

He knew he should have stayed home. He knew something was going to happen, but as he rushed home, he didn't realize it would be that bad. He didn't realize he had to break down his own door because his hands were shaking too much to put the key in the lock (now he really had to change the lock on the door). He didn't want to break down the door to their bedroom, in case Cas just fell asleep and was getting some peace after all, but he didn't want to see—he shook the thought away. Most of all, Dean didn't know he was walking into a room where his angel was shaking to the core.

Dean opened his eyes. He didn't want to think about it. He wanted Cas to be normal and healthy, back in the kitchen, back at home, back in his arms, sleeping as peacefully as possible. Dean watched as the girl started to open her eyes, looking out to Dean. Somehow, the two of them understood the other: they both had high prices on their shoulders. They had someone to protect, someone to better, and they knew they had to make sure the other was okay. The children sobbed in the background, but they needed no words between the two of them. All that was said was: "I understand."

The door opened. Dean's eyes flickered to the door. A new doctor stood in the doorway. "Dean?" The voice was ominous. He noticed the doctor was holding some kind of film in his hand, which most likely were the MRI results. Dean rose to his feet. "May I speak to you outside?" Without hesitation, he began to walk. Where was he going? What was he going to? Why did the doctor want to talk to him? He grew anxious. He needed to keep his head held high, though, and remind himself that he was doing this for Cas. He needed to know how to keep Cas healthy and comfortable in their own home.

He took in a deep breath. It's for Cas, he repeated, as he stepped outside and stood next to the doctor. The doctor smiled. "Dr. Heman needed to step out for a trauma patient, but I am Sid. Don't worry trying to pronouncing my real name," he pointed to his badge. Dean glanced down. Yeah, he wasn't going to try. "May we take a walk?" The doctor started to walk down a hallway, and Dean really didn't want to leave Cas alone. But he'd be back; he always would be. So he rushed to the side and started to walk with Sid. "Now, could you tell me about the symptoms Castiel has been having recently?"

While he had been through this with every doctor, Dean wasn't annoyed by repeating his words. "It started out as a headache about a week and a half ago, and—" the doctor stopped in front of some x-ray machine.

"How mild was the headache?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, it seemed to go away after taking an aspirin." The doctor nodded, placing the film into the machine.

"I see, go on," he muttered. He didn't turn the light on.

"Uh, alright," Dean nervously chuckled. "Well, then it got worse a few nights later, like, really bad. Dude was in pain so much he started to scream. The next day, he even started vomiting. I've never had a migraine like that."

The doctor nodded. "Neither have I."

"Yeah, well," Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Y-You know the rest of the symptoms, yeah?"

Dean watched the doctor nod. "I do, and so do the other doctors on Castiel's case. We have gone through every possibility for your friend, Dean." How many doctors were on the case? Dean didn't want to ask; part of him didn't want to know. "Tell me, was Castiel ever dizzy? Or seeing two of one thing?"

Dean blinked. "Dean? Why are there two of you?" He nodded. He remembered Cas saying something like that when they were getting out of the bathroom, talking about how the room was spinning and how he didn't know which bed to sleep in.

The doctor flipped the light on. Dean flinched at how bright it was (how doctors could stare at something like that for hours at a time was something), but looked at the image. It was Cas, only his head. "I assume you know that this is Castiel's head, correct? We had taken an MRI of his skull so we could get an affirmed prognosis on his condition."

Dean nodded. "Y-Yeah, I was there." He was really fascinated at what it looked like. He had seen the films in the movie, where the x-ray showed everything back, but all of it looked so beautiful and normal—he saw nothing wrong. Dean turned to the doctor. "So, what, there's nothing wrong?"

The doctor tilted his head. "Why do you assume that?"

Dean pointed to the picture. "Well, there's nothing wrong with him. His brain, I mean, it looks normal to me. So it's just a terrible migraine, stuff that people get all the time."

The doctor brought a pen out and started to point at different areas of the brain. "I concur that it looks normal enough, yes, but," no, not "but". There was no need for "but", not in Dean's world. "let me tell you about a certain area of the brain. Here," he circled the lower back area of the brain. "this is the Posterior Fossa. Dr. Heman is a neurologist and brain surgeon, specializing in how the brain works. He had done a test on Castiel to see where the most pain resonated from the headaches, and it seemed that the Posterior Fossa was the winner. Now, from this scan, there is nothing visible." It was a sort of aerial view of the brain. Sid brought out another film from the folder. "This scan, though, let me see if you see anything."

The first picture was gone, and there was nothing but light. Dean was terrified. What was going to be on the film? What was going to—the film hit the light. Dean looked back to the same area the doctor circled before, the Posterior whatever. He leaned forward. Something was there. What was it? "We've concluded," the doctor started. Dean turned his eyes over to Sid, who looked horrified himself. "That we can rule out simple headaches and migraines. There is enough evidence here that shows—"

"What is it?" Dean regretted asking the question. He wanted to prolong the truth for as long as he could. He had a feeling, a gut feeling that was hurting his heart. He looked at Sid, who frowned, and he felt a few tears coming to his eyes. "Just—just tell me what it is, please." Sid looked back to the film and pointed to the Posterior Fossa again, circling the one thing Dean saw; Dean didn't look back at the film.

"A tumor." He repeated it again, but quietly. "It's a tumor."

No.

He refused to believe—

"We are not sure how the tumor had lasted this long without some symptoms showing. All tumors, however—"

A life with Cas, once a reality and dream, now becoming a fantasy. All the things he planned for the future, gone. Now they had something else to worry about, something that was life-threatening. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, continuing to listen to the doctor talk.

"—which is why we should start treatment right away. There are many options for the tumor: surgery, chemotherapy—"

Surgery? Chemotherapy? What would Cas say about this? _Cas._ Dean could only imagine what he'd say about cancer, about what was happening in his head. He'd probably comment on how it was near his end, that he wasn't going to last forever. Jimmy's body is still vulnerable to all human disease; it was only a matter of time.

"—now, Dean. Have…you any questions for me?"

Dean opened his eyes. There was no way. One question clouded his mind, one that would make or break him. "How long?"

Sid turned to the film; Dean did not follow. He knew what was on there, he knew what he'd see, and he wanted it to disappear. "Without treatment, and judging by the film, he has about one to two years." Dean rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. That definitely broke him. "We are unable to determine the stage of the tumor, so we are unable to give a more definitive time span without tests. With treatment, as long as the cancer cells stay benign, he will live a healthy life for many years."

He opened his eyes again. Nurses and doctors rushed past the two, but he could see the looks on their faces: pity. Even some of the patients in the hallway wanted to give their condolences, but he wanted none of that. He stared at Sid for a long, silent moment before whispering: "I don't believe it."

Sid frowned. "I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head, letting his eyes move between the doctor and the film. "No, do another test. It is not right. It's not true. Shit, just do another scan!" He was starting to lose it. His anger was building up—it was just a headache, that's all it was. That's what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that it was a really bad migraine and that with enough painkillers it'd go away. All he could see, though, was the film. That tumor would haunt him until the day he died. He wouldn't be able to scrub the film away from his mind.

Sid frowned. "It would only show what we know right now. If we just do more testing—" Dean felt a hand touch him on the shoulder, and he shrugged it off. Not this doctor, too, thought Dean; he didn't want any pity. He just wanted—Sid wanted to help him, but Dean pushed him away. "I need to be with Cas right now."

Sid felt the slightest shove from Dean occur as he walked past the doctor. Dean was in a haze. He didn't know what to do. How was he going to tell Cas? Worse, how was he going to cope with the cancer eating away at Cas's brain? "Dean, wait—" He heard his name being called out, but "It's a tumor" echoed louder and louder in his mind. Make it stop, he thought, as he brought his hands to his ears. He started to push other doctors and nurses out of the way, just to get back to Cas. He still could not believe it was a tumor.

"No," he whispered. Dean quickly opened and shut the door to the room, hiding himself in the dark chasm that was holding his angel down to the bed. Dean didn't know what to do. He saw the girl still by her dad's side, still holding onto his hands, and he rushed over to Cas. He was still sleeping.

What was he supposed to do? What did he have to do to save Cas? "It's a tumor" continued to repeat itself in his head, and he brought his hands to his ears again. No, he thought. He's lying. They're all lying. It's a lie. God, tell me it's a lie.

He closed his eyes as he slumped back down onto the chair next to the bed. The words kept haunting him, and all he could do was shake his head in denial. There was no way. He could feel his heart pound against his rebuilt ribcage, his eyes water, and he shook his head. Not again. He opened his eyes and saw Cas's hand slumped by his side. Even though the words in his head would not leave, he reached out to grab the hand with his own, holding them for dear life. No, he refused to believe that it was a tumor, that something was eating away at his brain. Moving the chair closer to the bed, he brought their hands to his lips, kissing the fingers as he started to cry.

Why was it happening to him? Why was any of this happening to the both of them? It was a migraine, that's all it was. Why was Cas starting to die? Dean brought their hands to his forehead and closed his eyes. Cas had different pains to worry about, but Dean felt he was sharing the pain. How Cas did not cry with the pain surrounding his entire body, Dean was not sure. But the tears fell, and he would not allow them to stop.

He couldn't open his eyes for the rest of the night. He was too busy making a call to someone that was not important to him, but more to Cas.

"Dear God, save him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not about to lose you, you know?"  
> "Yes," Cas responded.  
> He knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No death, just a bunch of healing and angst--lots and lots and LOTS of angst--and feels galore. Enjoy!

**x**

_It can't be true  
That I'm losing you  
The sun cannot fall from the sky_

**x**

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._ ("Come on, come on," an impatient Dean muttered into the receiver.)

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Click._

_"It's Sam—"_ ("Damn it," cursed Dean.) _"—essage."_

_Beeeeeeep._

"…Sammy? Hey. Look, I, uh…I know you're busy trying to track someone down for Bobby, who knows where, but I…I just wanted to know how you were. I heard you were doin' alright from Bobby, but…I, uh, I…hope you're okay. Okay."

_Click._

**x x x**

He couldn't see. Someone was taping his eyes shut—or maybe just keeping them closed with their fingers, he couldn't tell—and he could hear a female's voice tell him to relax. It was the redhead, he thought. He could not remember her name; who was she again? He wanted to respond, but it felt like someone glued his mouth shut, but that was not possible. He was talking some minutes ago—was it minutes ago? Where was he? Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the tense muscle with their rough hands; it was Dean, he was sure. He could picture him sitting next to him, looking somewhere else as he tried to calm the fallen angel down.

Cas wanted to turn his head, but something was keeping him still. "Castiel," a strong voice boomed. For a split moment, he believed it to be God. It was only a doctor, he kept telling himself. "This will be over before you know it, but it might hurt."

"Hurt? I thought he was knocked out cold, Doc," ah, Cas thought. Dean. Why couldn't he open his eyes? And why would he be "knocked out cold?" He did not understand.

"He is lucky we do not do this while he is awake," the booming voice responded. Do what, though? He remembered being in a hospital bed next to Dean—who looked despondent—as the doctors explained some kind of test called a "biopsy", and then the nurse was—was administering the drugs when he was listening. He was being forced to lie on his back and face the world with darkness forevermore, but before his eyes were glued, he saw Dean and heard him say: "I'm right here."

Then he remembered smelling some weird gas when he was actually staring at a different ceiling. That ceiling had many lights shining down on his body, as though the angels were singing "Hallelujah" for their brother, and the nurse was telling him to count from 100 backwards. Deep breath in—tingling sensation throughout his body—deep breath out—his legs were going numb—deep breath in—Dean's voice was becoming very distant, and he was going on about the procedure—deep breath out—he closed his eyes.

He could hear some drill behind him. _Whirr!_ Something made his heart stop (of course metaphorically, because the machines next to him still beeped). Who was he facing at the time of his darkest hour? He was afraid, but of what? He could not say. Cas wished to reach out to someone, anyone, grab hold of them and tell them that he was okay, that his head didn't hurt anymore. Just make it stop. He wanted to go home. Dean, where was he? There, hand grabbing his hand; comfort. He knew that feeling.

Someone told him they were ready, and it was just beginning to end. Cas couldn't take in a deep breath, but he heard the others around do it for him. The fingers that held him tightened; the drill fired up again. This time, he could hear the drill bit close to his ear, like a hellhound biting at his heels and waiting for the fire to consume his being. Where were his wings? Why couldn't he fly? He couldn't see, but he knew Dean's head was turned away, eyes shut, hand around Cas's own.

And then, the first bite.

It was excruciating pain. The medicine did nothing for him. It numbed everything but the one point in time where he needed the most help. He could hear his own head cracking from the pressure, little bits of the skull shattering under the drill's rage. He could even feel the blood from inside his head drip down his shirt, to the floor, on the doctor's shoe, and he knew there was a puddle. He could feel someone wipe the blood every once in a while, the drill stopping in certain areas so the blood could be cleansed.

"Jesus," he heard Dean whisper; he was shaking. Then the drill started up again, and Dean's grip stayed. Cas wanted to open his mouth and scream at the top of his lungs for it all to stop. It was the headaches all over again, but ten times worse. If he were awake during the procedure, he'd want to vomit blood over his lap and endure another five seizures before feeling that again. He swore his skull was splitting in two, that more blood was coming from the little hole in his head, but the doctors were praising their work.

The drill stopped. It pulled out. Blood drained like a faucet. Someone wiped it away. Cas could feel Dean lean forward and bring the hand into the air.

"Help me," he wanted to tell Dean. But he refused to beg.

The doctors said something, then the nurse moved away from the skull; not as much blood came from him. Perhaps God performed a miracle. Cas felt someone take his head and hold it in place, lowering his neck a bit. He could also feel Dean's forehead on his knuckles, and his eyes were closed. Was he praying? It didn't matter; the pain was back again when he felt someone touch his brain.

It felt—odd. Of course, the pain was impossible to get over. It made his whole body want to shut down and call it a life. It felt as though his brain was throbbing against his skull and wanted sweet release. Cas wished for that. But then this cold, metal rod—was it a rod?—poked him. It moved around, it squished against his brain, and it sounded like it was sucking something out. The doctors made a note on how it looked (but he didn't speak the medical lingo like some of his brethren could) and continued to take something from him. He felt violated; he felt vulnerable.

Dean was still there; he was not alone.

Deep breath in— _beep_ —deep breath out— _beep_ —deep breath in—the needle (perhaps that was what it was) pulled away—deep breath out—Dean wrapped another hand around theirs—deep breath in— _beep_ —deep breath out—the pain took him away from reality.

He let himself relax into a deep sleep— _beep._

**x x x**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He was still. The white sheets covered the needle-ridden arms, the slight bruising surrounding the open wounds; machines stuck by his bedside as if he were glued to them; pale, white skin shone under the white light on his body, and directed all attention to the dark bags under his eyes; the chest rose and fell in a stuck pattern, signified by the beeping, the constant beeping that haunted Dean wherever he went; a piece of cloth stuck to his head was oozing onto the stale pillow, and Dean would make sure it wasn't blood.

They told him he would be awake by then. They told him it would only take a few hours for the medicine to bring him back. It had been almost ten hours, and Cas still laid on the bed with his eyes shut, his mouth closed, his head rolled to one side. For the most part, Dean kept his eyes locked on the former angel, watching every move that he would possibly make (he only made one twitch through the wait, which Dean first thought would be the start of another seizure, but it was just a twitch) and could make sure he was there when he would wake up.

He tried going to sleep. He was tired, and he knew the nurses knew that as well. Hell, the patients could probably see that he was exhausted. Test after test, news still piling in about Cas—it took a toll. Dean first rested his head on Cas's hand, feeling the faint pulse in his wrist make his veins tremble, and he would close his eyes, but part of him thought it would hurt Cas somehow, so it failed him. Another time, he leaned against the bars on Cas's bed with his arms and closed his eyes once again. But he was afraid that the doctors would have to push him out of the way to get to Cas, in case something did happen to him as he was asleep. So he didn't sleep.

Instead, he just stared at the others around the room, because there wasn't a lot to do at a hospital besides watch others suffer and smile at the same time. They all had loved ones surrounding them with flowers and balloons—"Get Well Soon!" were the words that floated above them like a taunting joker—and most were smiling and laughing about something about their day. Most of the patients were awake. They were alert, well, talking to their doctors about the treatments they'd need to get better, and that'd be it. The loved ones would kiss the patients and be content with their life.

And then there were the few that were stuck in limbo, wondering if there was any chance of survival. Dean belonged to the "we know what is wrong with your partner and they will be okay" side of the ordeal. These people had to sit by their loved ones' side and hope they would awaken sooner rather than later, in case of complications. But then there were others that had news of despair and grief. The cries would wallow every once in a great while, when a man in a white lab coat would stride up to them and give them the "your loved one is dying and there is nothing we can do about it" speech. Dean had only been there for hours, but already two beds were empty from what was a full room.

From them, there was only one group left: those left to wait and see. The doctors had no time to get to them, and they were still holding out for a miracle or two to come their way, to know that their family was safe and sound. So they would wait by the bedside and look toward the door of the room, hoping that the next doctor to come through would be theirs and theirs alone. They waited for the bearer of news to come for them. It was better than being blind at what was wrong.

He didn't know what was better: knowing the news of what was killing or torturing their loved ones, or not knowing a thing at all. Dean looked back to Cas. Then again, not having to deal with a deadly illness would be an even better blessing. He just wished a miracle of some kind would come their way, that God would actually hear a Winchester prayer or two so it could make life just a bit more bearable than the usual routine.

Dean felt a hand rest on his shoulder. For a split second, just for the one dark moment, he wanted it to be nothing but a glowing, old figure standing over him, telling him "It will be okay, My Son. I am here now to take care of My soldier." But he was not disappointed to find another old figure standing over him, glowing from the lights that shined on the ceiling (the person had something in his hands—it was on a plate). He was used to the bitter feeling of abandonment.

"How're ya holdin' up, son?" he said to Dean. Dean just scoffed as he turned back to Cas. Was he awake? No.

Dean felt the hand leave him and heard the screeching of a chair pulled next to him. Some of the patients didn't care to look up and find another visitor for the lost angel. "Oh, I'm just fine and dandy, Bobby," he replied.

Bobby sat down in the chair. "Yeah, I bet you are," sarcasm laced over the deep voice next to him made Dean smile. He saw a small plate of pie in front of his face (the cafeteria pie was not the greatest, as he had tried it already, but it was pie). "Figured you haven't eaten much since the last time I saw ya," Bobby said.

And he was right. Dean tried to go back to the garage, to get his mind off of everything that had been going on with Cas. His co-workers, including Bobby, had no idea what he was going through; he didn't want pity or any of the kind. He wanted to work on his pride and joy—Baby needed to have some kind of lovin'—and have a day to himself, away from tests and news and _"It's a tumor"_ and something about the possibility of it being "stage 3."

But it didn't last very long.

When he first arrived at the garage, a few of the boys teased him about leaving so soon the last time they saw him. Even with the delicious purr of the engine echoing in the garage, he could hear them. "Hey, did your precious lover boy need some lovin' back home there, Dean?" "Couldn't wait to keep his hands off of him, I bet." And they'd laugh. Dean wanted to sock him in the mouth, but instead gave a fake smile and continued on his way. Bobby told the men to "knock it the hell off before I make ya" and Dean opened the door to his first love. Oh, she was still beautiful, even if she had a few specks of dirt on her old body.

Bobby was the first to ask where he'd been; it was almost over a week since being at the shop last. "What the hell have you and Cas been doing?"

Dean shrugged. "Just some housework that needed to be done," he lied. And that was it. Bobby didn't want any elaborations, didn't want to know if that was the truth or not; he just left him alone to work on his car. And what better way to pass the time than to work on his little pride and joy? Dean thought it was a great idea, and he was not going to pass up the opportunity to work on her. Pop the hood: check. Raise her up a little to get underneath: check. Open the doors for easy access into the car just in case: check. Tools, and a little something to get him through the turmoil: check.

But it worked, for some time. He needed to fix a few belts and change her oil, make sure nothing was loose under the hood, and clean the interior. And he succeeded in most of that. The belts were worn down, so they were replaced. That knocked off an hour of his time. While he was doing that, he had the oil drained from his baby, taking care of the mess that needed to be taken away. Get rid of the old oil filter, find a new washer, put together the new filter, fill the new filter—it was secondhand to him. In minutes, that would be done. If he really chose to, he could take up a project that would last the entire day on his one and only, but he instead wiped his hands as clean as they could get with the rag in his pocket and started to lower her down.

He'd have to check things under the hood. Crack open her mind, that's what he—that's what he'd say to Sam when he was going to fix her. _"See, it's like the heart and soul, Sammy. You gotta be gentle and give it plenty of love throughout the years, and it'll remember all of it, so when you go back, you can just fix it all over again. Nothing's broken."_ But that couldn't be fixed, he thought, as he stared down the inside of the hood. He couldn't just crack open Cas's hood and take a few tools to get rid of the thing eating his mind to the core. A car could be fixed with a few tools and basic knowledge. You could dig your hands inside and know what you were dealing with if something happened. Whatever was broken could be restored to perfection again. But Cas couldn't. Even if he were to be fixed, would it be perfect? Nothing was simple procedure; everything had to be delicate and handled with care, or else the interior wouldn't be the same. The engine won't run if—

_Clank! Crash! Tink!_

Bolts and screws scattered across the garage in the middle of the junkyard. Socket wrenches and hammers rested near the toolboxes against the walls, dents visible on the scrap metal that kept the place above ground, and little bolts rested nearby. One toolbox was ripped apart from the seams, with a variety of tools kicked across the ground and thrown in various parts of the room, some even resting on top of the wooden benches. Stools were knocked over, tires laid flat against the dirt—his friends inside the shop didn't dare go near him. They tried, but one got hit with the socket wrench, and another was told to hit Dean until he was coughing up blood. They just stood and watched as all Dean could do was stand next to his pride and joy, wondering where life had gone wrong.

Once Bobby was informed, the whole garage brought their attention to the two men wrapped in the tense air. "Dean, what in the hell are you doing!" Bobby yelled to him. He wouldn't understand. He would—Dean could feel the hammer in his hands being ripped from him, the glass still glittering down from his car (which he'd apologize to later in the day), but Dean needed something, anything. He felt all that rage inside of him, all the anguish he was being put through, and no one understood. Bobby was the only thing that stood in his way, pushing him against the car to try and stop him. "Dean!" He yelled again.

Dean had enough. "Bobby, let me go!" He tried to swing his way out, but Bobby pushed him against her more.

"Not until—"

"Until I what, huh? Until I hear that he's going to be okay? Well what if he's not!" Bobby just stared at him.

"What are you talking about?" And Dean pushed against him with everything he had, finally feeling free again from the hold.

"It's Cas, Bobby! He's—"

So he gave himself credit in trying. It lasted a solid hour and some minutes before he cracked and let his frustration out. He tried to occupy his mind with his baby still resting in the garage, but Dean could only see Cas wrapped up in wires, collapsing between the sheets of their bed because of some tumor. _"It's a tumor"_ —it didn't help that the doctor's voice was echoing through his mind and making sure Dean knew what was starting the breakdown of his life. The only thing that did help was the food and alcohol Bobby had for him so he could calm down. And even then, it didn't help. _"It's a tumor"_ still rang through the silence every time.

Dean stared down at the pie in his hands. If it were any other time, he would be shoving every bit of it down his throat and loving all it had to offer. It would probably taste the same as it had days ago when he went to get pie ("Do not get a lot of it, Dean") from the same cafeteria, but something about it turned him away from the morsel. "I'm not hungry," Dean whispered, letting the plate rest in his hands and push toward Bobby next to him.

"The hell you aren't," Bobby grumbled. Dean's stomach had impeccable timing; the moment those words rang through the air, it growled. Bobby just stared at him as the pie floated between them. "He's gonna think you are sick because of him."

Dean glanced at the man on the bed. He'd hate that. Cas probably already felt as though he was a burden—it was no one's fault but God's, and neither of them would say that to each other. Dean's arm moved back to his lap; the pie teased him. He poked the pie with the little plastic fork on the plate, feeling the apple insides stabbed by the prongs. He was sure it would taste the same as it had days ago, just when Cas was starting to get little treatments, when there was no way to go but up.

A chunk of the pie sliced away and stuck to the fork. Little flakes shook off onto the plate, and a few sprinkled on his pants. He was sure that if Cas were to wake up, he'd tease him about how much of a mess he was making. He usually did. "Aren't you supposed to eat with your mouth closed?" A small smile crept onto his face as he stared down at the delicious morsel full of everything God Himself found perfect in the world. It was His one creation that couldn't be tainted with things like tumors and cancer.

Bobby leaned forward; Dean stared down at his fork. "He'll pull through," Bobby remarked, comforting Dean with his hand on his arm. Dean's muscles flexed at the touch, as though they were leaning toward the sudden warmth. His hand felt heavy as he brought the food to his mouth; it was shaking. He would not break down there, not then. Open the mouth, let the food rest against the tongue, close the mouth, chew.

It tasted like apples and cinnamon—Heaven.

**x x x**

Blue eyes stared up at the bright light above. The machines still whirred and whizzed, beeped and bumped through the night. His head pounded against his skull, and he could feel the cloth taped to the back, but he could tolerate the pain. He just wondered where he was; it was too dark beyond his light. The other patients were sleeping under their darkened lights, and his was glowing stronger and stronger as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Perhaps he could reach up and get rid of it. That would burn, he thought, and his limbs were too tired to move anyway. The drugs, maybe; he hated medicine.

He turned his head. Dean, he thought, as a figure rested in a chair beside him. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his head leaning against his own shoulder, and the light snore Cas always heard in the bed was being made. He wondered how Dean could possibly be there after visiting hours (seeing as how the other visitors were gone). Perhaps the doctors were kind enough to let him stay—or perhaps Dean had a word or two with a doctor and that was why he had some slight bruising under his eye.

Cas frowned. He felt—ashamed? Here was Dean, someone that worked hard for all his life, to try and have some kind of normal life the best that he could, and there he was, stuck inside a hospital because someone he cared for was stuck there as well. Maybe it was more of borderline guilt, given that it was his fault that Dean was there in the first place. In any case, Cas wished nothing but the greater good for Dean Winchester, and there he was, getting nothing but torture he once escaped.

Cas let his hand slide off the bed in order to reach out to Dean, but he stopped. What would they talk about when he woke up? What about the others in the room that could eavesdrop on their conversation? And for him to see the worry in Dean's eyes again? He retreated. Dean needed to rest; he needed peace. And Cas couldn't take that away from him, not after taking so much from him already.

Blue eyes disappeared from the world again.

**x x x**

Day five after the biopsy. Dean needed to keep track.

**x x x**

They were outside. The nurses thought the fresh air would do him some good, instead of being "stuck inside a stuffy hospital for a little while longer." It was a nice day outside, that was something to be happy for, they supposed. There were white clouds rolling by in the sky, mixed with the dark ominous clouds that called for a thunderstorm later in the day; the sun beamed down on the two of them, one sweating from the rays, and the other welcoming the light; trees rustled from the calming breeze rolling through, passing by, just like the patients that walked by every once in a while as they sat on the bench near the flowerbeds. Cas chose the spot; Dean would've preferred the shade under the trees. "I am not strong enough to make it over there. I am sorry," Cas told him. So Dean managed to agree to disagree for a change.

They looked out at the little junction ahead of them. Sure, there were patients walking around—some with doctors and nurses on their arms (Sid wanted to stay with Cas because he was "afraid Cas will pass out because of his weak system", but Dean put a stop to that so they could have some kind of privacy), but it was still a gorgeous hospital. The lawn was well kept, the architecture looked as though the hospital was built in the Renaissance, and there were little stone walkways patients could use to get around. The only reason Dean knew there was a park nearby was because of the children screaming about from time to time.

He looked over at the frail patient. He managed to argue his way to get Cas to wear some of his clothes for a change, instead of that good for nothing gown. Dr. Heman frowned at the request. "He will think he is going home, Mr. Winchester. We do not want to bring his hopes up for nothing."

"I hardly doubt he thinks he's going home with a piece of fabric taped to his head, and a bunch of needles pricking his arms," was Dean's rebuttal. Sophia just handed Cas the clothing (who found them unfamiliar for a minute, because of how he was used to the gown) and told him he was going outside. Cas had to look at Dean for permission, to which he threw a thumbs up for the guy. A small smile made Dean smile.

So it was why Cas was wearing a pair of dark jeans with a loose fitting plaid shirt. Some of the patients that walked by eyed him with indifference and malice, since they had to walk around bare naked in a gown while he could wear something refreshing. He was still attached to the dripping IV bag that had to roll around wherever he went, and there was still that damn cloth on the back of his head (Dean's fingers would sometimes find themselves brushing over the spot, feeling the soft liquid come out from the wound), but at least he looked okay, for the most part.

It was "for the most part" because he was still pale, still bruised on his arms, still wrapped with medical badges on his wrists, and he looked so very weak. And Dean knew how weak he was. As they got him out of bed to get him ready for the small journey outside, Cas could barely stand on his own. They offered a wheelchair, but Dean wrapped his arm around his partner and told him he'd be there when he would fall. Cas scoffed at the reference, understanding it completely. At least Dean thought it was cute.

Even the walk down the hallway proved to be one of the biggest challenges for the fallen angel—and he'd been through Hell and back. He would bump into Dean from time to time (which he'd apologize for, but Dean told him to stop), take small steps instead of his normal strides, as if he were a hot shot, and Dean had to keep him stable as he walked just to get him to the door.

So it was probably a good idea that they chose the bench closest to the hospital doors instead of walking toward the tree. Perhaps Cas wouldn't had made it that far anyway. He looked over at Cas, who was looking at everything around. "This is nice, yeah?" he commented.

Cas nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "it is nice to be outside than inside there."

"Well you gotta get some kind of fresh air. How are you supposed to get better when you are constantly breathing in someone else's sickness?" Dean was trying to make light of the situation, which did gather a small shrug from the fallen angel. It was something, he thought.

"I do not feel as though I am dying," he looked over at Dean. How was he supposed to respond? Cas sighed. "But perhaps it is better to have some fresh air than the air I am accustomed to here."

Dean let his hand rest on top of Cas's, allowing their hands to find some solace on the bench. Cas glanced down at the two conjoined hands and slightly moved; Dean just let his fingers slightly wrap around. "You're going to be okay, Cas."

"And you are sure of this?" asked Cas, who normally never felt the need to be unsure of something. Dean nodded.

"Of course. When haven't you pulled through?" Well—minus the times Cas died, it was a slim few times.

"Then," Dean felt a head lean against his shoulder; he knew what was coming. He just didn't have the heart to own up to it yet, but it still needed to be heard. "When are we able to go home?"

 _We_ , Dean thought. It struck a chord. It wasn't just Cas that was stuck in the hospital; Dean was, too. Their profound bond, slightly coiling against the other, and there was nothing the two of them wanted to do to stop it from happening. Dean was okay with being at the hospital; he'd rather see him get better. Cas, maybe not, but Dean had nowhere else to go, no one left to turn to; he was okay with his fallen angel.

Dean closed his eyes and bent his head forward. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I promise." Dean could've sworn he heard a small growl come from Cas, but when he peeked out to his partner, he could see the joy glimmer in his eyes.

Hope.

**x x x**

They were not together. Instead, Dean was home, eight days after the procedure, three days after his own promise about home.

The doctors told him that Cas would have to undergo some MRI again, and then another test that was unfamiliar to Dean, so he'd probably be "better off at home than sitting in the lobby with sick patients." When Dean first said no, that he'd stay, Cas felt guilty for keeping Dean away from everything. "Dean," the stern voice called out to the former hunter over the doctors hovering over him. The hunter just stared at those blue eyes, the one thing that seemed to stay as healthy as could be. "You need rest."

The doctors were pushed away by Dean, who was standing by the door trying to be forced out of the room, and he went right to the bedside. "Yeah? And what happens if something happens to you?"

Cas acknowledged the accusation. "I believe the worst has already happened."

_Set up the moment, just right._

_Dean was nervous._

_"Hey, I—I need to talk to you about something."_

_Yes, nervous. He always bent his head when he didn't want to talk._

_"What is it, Dean?"_

_Green eyes looked back._

_"You have to stay in the hospital a bit longer."_

_"Why?"_

_Irritation, they both know._

_"So you can get better, why the hell else would you be in here?"_

_"I don't know, I never asked to come into this place."_

_More irritation, then they closed in on the inciting incident._

_"Cas, would you just shut up and listen! You have a tumor, for God's sake!"_

_"Tumor?"_

_A firework goes off; set the stage, climax._

_He was now angry._

_"Yes! A tumor! Do you know what that is? Or are you still so damn oblivious to everything?"_

_"Cancer."_

_A slight pause, tension fills the air._

_"Yes."_

_Another pause, and then a resolution._

_"So, I am dying."_

"I will be okay," Cas whispered.

But Dean would not let the silence fall so easily. "Because you know so much about what's wrong with you," Dean quickly snapped back. It was soon a regret he would have, seeing the look of desperation on the other's face. "Cas," his voice was full of vexation. Dean leaned against the bars of the bed and leaned forward, head bent down. Only Cas could see the utter frustration in his face, contemplating on what to do. Cas frowned. He sluggishly raised his hand to grace Dean's arm, who turned his attention to the hand instead of the person and frowned.

"I will be okay," Dean felt Cas's hand drop back to the bed. He sighed; he knew he'd be okay. It wasn't like the angel was going under the knife that day. Dean let one of his hands reach out and touch faith, then stared down at the beaten man under the thin sheets. Dean was torn, sure, but he really hadn't slept in days. Cas was probably more worried about Dean's health than his own (some profound bond, he thought), and the guy really didn't need more to worry about.

So he left.

Everything was still in all the places they had left it when he first arrived, still where life had come to reside, and he found it all so unfamiliar. Dishes that were left in the sink were more than likely one of the reasons why the room smelled horrible; blankets over the couch for when Cas took a nap unraveled toward the floor; left out bread and other foods were rotting and molding under the hot sun; dust started to accumulate in places left untouched by the interim of life. He expected to see Cas in the kitchen, staring out the window, or maybe coming out of the bedroom—perhaps he would be sitting on the couch watching TV—and he'd turn his head around and say, "Hello, Dean."

But no one was there to greet him when he walked through the somewhat chipped door of their home, when he gently swayed and leaned against the banisters next to the door. He didn't remember getting punched, but his jaw hurt. Oh well, he thought. Still, no one was there when he was lying on the bed a couple hours later, either, when he was staring up at the ceiling. This familiar room of his, so forgotten in the span of just a few days, and there he was. It felt wrong to be in the room just by himself. Cas was always there, always sleeping before him (or he'd manage to see his partner sitting awake, waiting for him to fall asleep instead). He had set his alarm for some time in the early morning—he would not be kept away from the hospital that easily, he thought—and laid his head on the sweet release he called his pillow (it was sheets balled up next to his head).

He tried to sleep. God knows he needed the sleep. And when he'd wake up, everything would be "fine", just like the doctors told him as he was walking away. Fine, Dean thought. Fine was not in the Winchester dictionary. If they were to look it up, it'd just be a picture of a grave with no headstone to accompany it in the graveyard. So he glanced at the clock, which read 2:03 P.M. (he thought he left the hospital around 8 in the morning), before shutting his eyes to rest. He took a deep breath in, and let it out the next few seconds after that. He even tried to get comfortable—he tossed and turned until he realized that lying on his back would do the trick—and tried to dream of something, anything.

But there was nothing he could do. He was constantly reminded of the house being empty. The room was cold. He was always so warm when he lied in the bed, and he probably guessed it was because of Cas's body heat that kept him warm at night. It wasn't like the man was a furnace, but he wondered how he slept at night without someone there next to him like that. He didn't even sleep that well with Lisa or Cassie. He figured it was just the angel's bond with him. The wind outside made not a sound. Usually, Cas did this little snoring bit during the night that would always wake Dean up, but Dean wouldn't mind. He'd even crack a few jokes to Cas, which would always result in obliviousness: "I do not make sounds when I sleep, Dean." The empty space next to him made him realize just how hard it was to sleep, and it was even harder to know that his partner in a hospital bed might have been thinking the same thing. But at least Cas didn't move his arm to that once taken spot to know that there was something missing.

Dean did, however, and it took him a few seconds to register that Cas would not be in bed that night. His arm slightly swooped over to Cas's side of the bed—his partner liked to be on the side farther away from the door, since Dean liked to stay up later than usual—and reached out for nothing but air. Sometimes, Dean's hand would just graze Cas's back on accident, or on purpose to really irritate Cas ("Dean I wish to sleep. Stop touching me"). Other times, Cas would curl next to Dean in the slightest way possible, and he would wake up with his arm asleep, because Cas wouldn't realize he was lying on his arm (which would prompt a casual, "I am sorry for causing discomfort to your arm, Dean"). But Dean wouldn't mind.

He turned his head on the bed and opened his eyes. An empty space, just like he felt, just as he pictured it in his mind. It was weird seeing the wall on the other side. And he didn't know how long he stared out at that plain wall near the bathroom, but he knew he tapped against the mattress with his fingertips. He could feel the cold sheets shiver against his arms, giving him goosebumps from the ghostly cold, and he pulled the sheets over his body more. He could see Cas's outline on the bed—sometimes he'd sleep on his side and look like a child, and other times he'd sleep on his stomach and look so peaceful. Dean wondered how he was doing sleeping on his back for the first time in his life.

He grabbed a bit of the sheets underneath him and closed his eyes. It broke him that Cas was going through something as terrible as cancer, and yet there he was at home, resting on their bed without a care in the world, without a tumor stuck inside his head that was eating the life away. He opened his eyes, hoping it was all a dream, but only the plain white wall welcomed him back.

Dean had to turn away. He couldn't look at that unfamiliar wall of theirs anymore. He turned his head toward the ceiling again, eyes slowly drooping shut. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed a little longer, everything would be back to normal. Cas would be lying on his arm, the sun would be out in the morning, and Dean would be getting ready for work—just like any other day. His hand rubbed against the empty sheets, imagining that there Cas was, sleeping peace when the day was done. He would be on his stomach that night, head cocked toward Dean so he could wake up with those bright blue eyes of his to welcome another day. Cas would never go to bed without some clothing on, so he could feel the slim fabric of a casual white t-shirt roll on his fingertips.

Dean sighed. He seemed pathetic. He didn't think he could have his strong foundation, that massive wall that kept all these emotions inside torn down. He could feel his heart clenching and releasing all sorts of pain with every little detail that ran through his mind, and he could see Cas in the hospital, hooked up to the wires and sitting with his hands in his lap, patiently waiting for good news to come his way. And all Dean could do was comfort him when bad news kept coming and coming into their lives. Even when Cas slept, all he could do was watch over his partner as though he were a guardian angel, waiting for God's word to say, "It's okay. I'll take care of him from here."

It almost worked. He almost made it to a dream. He could feel it at his fingertips, just itching for some kind of relief. He tilted his head some direction (didn't matter which way), let one of his hands rest on the bed while the other felt his chest rise and fall in a certain pattern, and he was there. He could see Cas—healthy, stable, fighting, badass Cas—standing far away from him. Sam was there, Bobby was there…yeah, definitely a dream, he thought. And he was walking toward them, trying to get as far away from reality as possible.

It was just a few more steps that he needed to get to that healthy lifestyle, to the normality he was used to—whatever normal was to the team. But then his hand started to shake against the bed, as though a tremor was rocking through the mattress. And he was being ripped away from the three men standing in one spot to one man lying on a bed, twisting in agony and turning in different directions. His head would snap left and right, his eyes sometimes staring into Dean's own, his hands bent—

Dean was jolted from his sleep. He couldn't breathe without taking in large gasps of air. He was so afraid, so afraid that he was losing him again, and he couldn't do it. He looked down at his hands and felt nothing again, but every time he blinked, he could see Cas shaking, his silent cries screaming:

"Help me."

**x x x**

Oncology—big bold letters above their heads screamed "you're here because of something called cancer." Little moans and groans came and went in the blink of an eye, some even vomiting up whatever was entering (leaving, perhaps?) their bodies. Some slept in odd positions to actually rest up; others stared out to nothing but the people around them to wonder how they got there, wonder who brought them there in the first place. Their ages did not matter. Some were young, very young, too young to understand what cancer was, and others were old, too old to realize that their time was slowly coming to a close with a reaper standing over them, looking at their watches every once in a while.

Cas understood its implications, understood that cancer would rip apart a lifestyle in the matter of minutes. He had seen it all throughout time and space, and still knew that it was only a matter of days before time would either cease to exist or would be a blessing. For most, it would wither away. For the select few—and he hoped the archangel that plagued him would reconsider—time would be meaningful again. There would be no select countdown to solidify imminent despair; a miracle would be performed and all would be well.

The doctors around—"Oncologists", who specialize in cancer, which every doctor should at least have some knowledge of treatment and care—would talk about different "stages", as if it were a cycle, like life. Some were "Stage 1", and they seemed to be a little weary, but they were the happiest patients in the ward. Others were "Stage 2", which were a little more afraid of falling into the desolate stage of death, but still very optimistic. Then a little over a dozen of them were "Stage 3"—Cas's stage—the ones that seemed as though they were already dead, but the select few that were "Stage 4" looked at them as though they hadn't a clue what death meant.

A new needle was wrapped around his arm, spiraling to a new machine that rested next to him. They called it "chemotherapy", something that would help with the healing process of the tumor. It was his first day. Others in the room probably were on their thirds and fourths, maybe tenth time or twentieth. It did not sit well with him; why did it take so long for the tumor to be rid of? Could they just not open his head to get rid of it? He was not complaining about the treatment, though; his head was not hurting, and he was not feeling any different from the medicine. It was a good day.

The red-headed nurse—Sophia was her name, he knew he would remember—was sitting next to him with a chart in hand. He asked her why she was still his nurse, considering how she was an ER nurse, not an oncology nurse, but she just smiled. "What, do you wish to rid of me so soon? Someone has to look out for you." He said nothing more on the matter. He figured Sid would still be his doctor (he figured right). She would write down different numbers and vitals as the process continued, and every once in a while she'd smile and ask how he was feeling. "I am fine," he would reply. And she would smile more and write down something else.

"I'm glad you feel fine. Some patients have a tough time with the chemotherapy," she noted. He knew this. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would hear the moaning and groaning from some of them, and others would be coughing up whatever was in their systems. He figured it would happen to him. "How does your head feel?"

Cas brought a hand up to the back of his skull. There was a small cloth still over the wound, and there was still some oozing, which Dean deemed "gross" because it apparently looked gross. "It is better," he said. He could hardly feel the pain, in all actuality. Medicine worked wonders, even if he hated it from time to time.

She smiled. "Good," and back to writing she went. She hardly said a word after that—he'd just hear the scribbling of her notes against the paper, the little humming from the machine, and the disgusting painful sounds from the other side of the room. And when she did finally go to another patient, either in the room or not, she rested the chart on the small table full of empty pudding cups—Dean—and walked away. Simple as that, he thought. So he turned away and brought his attention to Dean, who was flipping through some magazine he found in the lobby.

He whistled. "Now that is a car," Dean noted. His green eyes peered up at the blue ones, which were just staring at him, and blinked. "What?" Cas shook his head. It was nothing, he wanted to say, but the incredulous look on his face was enough. Dean flipped another page. "You feelin' okay?"

It was always that question day in and day out: "How are you feeling?" "How are you today?" "And how are we doing on this day?" Were they expecting him to say anything different? But Cas nodded anyway. "I am content," he replied. Dean gave a little nod of his head.

"Good," he remarked, glancing back to the magazine. "That's good, then." He muttered, scanning the page. Another small whistle came from his lips. "Man, if the interior had been white," he thought to himself, turning to another page. Cas understood Dean's wish to leave the hospital—and he only wanted to leave. But he'd have to get better first, and who knew how long it would take.

What he did know was the chemotherapy going through his body. Leaning back into the bed once more, Cas sank into his pillow on the bed and closed his eyes. They said it would be an hour before the entire process would be complete. But he could already feel the healing process of life surge through his body and veins, soul and heart. He'd be okay.

**x x x**

He was screaming. Help him, save him, God knew he needed all the support he could find. All those machines hooked up to his arms, head, legs, some blankets that were wrapped around his hands and feet—something about preserving the nails so they are not damaged—and all the fallen angel could do was scream. There were pain medications labeled on the hooks above him, showing that yes, this man was getting enough treatment to ward off the pain, but to him, it wasn't enough. The headaches were still there; the truth was still lodged inside his mind, wanting to show the world its existence by causing pain.

Dean sat with him the whole time, hearing the Enochian cursing (he guessed it was Enochian, but it could have been Hebrew, for all he knew) under the angel's breath. He held onto his hand to somehow help ease the pain, but it didn't matter. His own hand was being crushed under the weight of what God deemed his soldier years and years ago, and it was evident that the medication prescribed wasn't doing a damn thing. But what else could he do? Pray? Like God would hear anything Dean would say at this point in time.

The others inside the room paid no attention. They had all been through it; they all knew the consequences. They stared with their doe eyes to the ground and listened to a dying man curse out the names of his brothers and comrades on the battlefield, while they, too, struggled to fight a war against themselves. Dean remembered the transfer ("He needs to be taken up to the Cancer unit for a short time. Don't worry, they'll take good care of you up there.") and remembered the girl in the last room talk about her father ("There is no reason to give up hope. The bad things happen to those that do no wrong, but it's up to us to right them somehow. I only wish he'd wake up.") as he sat with his partner.

Another scream, another groan—the nurses warned him of this. "There may be some moderate to severe pain that you will feel, and that is completely normal." None of the other patients were having that kind of difficulty to survive; they just looked pale and frail, nothing like how the screaming man looked. Some had lost their hair, others were losing it as they sat at their machines and in their beds. First round of chemotherapy was at hand for the two new to the ward, but the results of the test would take nearly a week before showing signs of improvement—but Dean knew there would be none. When did good news ever come to the Winchesters?

Dean moved onto the bed with him, pushing aside the balled up sheets he wasn't using. He didn't know if he should say anything, and if he did, what could be said? "Hey, I hope you feel better"? Dean frowned, looking down at the curled up soldier scream out in agony. He was not going to move, and Dean was not going to have a comfortable time on the bed (especially with the bar right against his back), but he was not going anywhere. Not when it hurt, not when he was there for everything else. His arm wrapped around the top of Cas, and his other hand rested against his back. Cas's back leaned into the touch, aching for something to help him—but nothing was there.

"It—It—hurts—" his breaths were rocky, and Dean could feel his whole body trembling, as though he was having another seizure. It was not that, though; it was not as bad as that. At least he had some composure in the hospital bed. Cas gripped his hand again, praying to God and all the angels that could and would hear him that it would all go away. And Dean would join. Just make it all go away, he thought. Help him. Save him, do something, anything.

But all Dean could do was hold onto Cas as he held on for the life he chose to have.

**x x x**

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Click._

_"It's Sam. Leave a message."_

_Beeeeeeep._

"I don't know what to do, Sammy. It's been two weeks and I-I don't…I don't know what else to do."

**x x x**

Scattered little hairs stood out against the white sheets. Dean's heart wrenched.

**x x x**

"Now, I want you to just relax, Castiel," Sophia told him. How could he, though? His whole body felt like it was on fire, yet he was shivering from the cold air circulating around him. Every time he moved, hair would float down on his shoulders and stay there, possibly sticking into his neck when he moved it again. He would feel the need to vomit again, constantly sitting over that blue bowl with the need to upchuck the pudding they gave him every day (Dean would force him to eat, even if he wanted the pudding to himself). And he swore his arms and legs were shaking, that only he knew that he was having a seizure. But Sophia stayed calm and collected, still staring down at that chart of theirs.

He felt drowsy. Ever since the chemotherapy first started, he wanted nothing to do with life; he just wanted to sleep. It irritated Dean ("Come on, Cas, we gotta get you doing something here") and it even irritated himself ("Why won't you let me sleep?"), but he couldn't help that the medicine was taking its toll on his body. So he let his eyes slip shut. Jimmy wouldn't want this, would he? He'd probably ask Cas to stop what he was doing and let him go. Probably—there was no sure thing. Then, he felt a slight nudge on his arm, and he slowly came back to reality.

"Castiel, I need you to stay awake for me. I need to know you'll be okay to discharge. You want to go home, don't you?" Home, he thought. He missed his bed. The beds at the hospital were okay, but they were nothing like his bed, nothing like the bed he had to share with Dean. It was like sleeping on a cloud, his cloud, his old cloud—Dean never could stand the bed, but he made compromises. Cas rolled his head to look at Sophia, who had a bit of concern on her face; he wanted to go home. He wanted to be there. So he nodded, confirming that he'd be okay. She gave a little smile. "Now, how are you feeling?"

Another survey; they were the same thing over and over again. They did that every day since the first round of chemotherapy. 'How are you feeling?' 'Does your head feel better or worse?' 'When was the last time you have vomited?' 'Let's check the strength you have.' And he'd ramble off the answers as though he knew them off the back of his hand. She'd write them down, scribble down everything she saw in his face, but it was as though she knew he wasn't lying to her; he really did feel fine and terrible at the same time.

"I am okay."

Scribble.

"Does your head feel better or worse?"

"Better."

Scribble.

"When was the last time you have vomited?"

"Perhaps around 3. What time is it?"

She looked down at the watch around her wrist.

"It's 9:30 P.M."

"Yes, 3 P.M. seems right."

Scribble.

"Well, let's check your strength, Castiel. Hold out your hands."

All he had to do was roll his hands over and hold up his palms. She'd place a few fingers in his palm, and she'd ask: "Can you squeeze them?" And of course, it wasn't any different—the strength was still there. He used enough to please her; he wasn't that tired. She smiled and gave her approval. "Very good, Castiel. No change," she scribbled it down on the paper, her hand quickly writing whatever it was she needed to write. Cas looked around the room; fallen eyes looked at him.

"Is there anything else you need from me?" As much as he wanted to say "please leave I don't want to see you", she had done nothing wrong. Dean talked about it with him before: "You're going to seem like a total dick sometimes, but it's just the medicine, alright? So don't apologize all the time." He was certain he apologized to Dean and Bobby numerous times with the fuming rebuttals he used, but they thought nothing of it. Bobby did get angry the first time ("What the hell did you say to me?") but Dean shrugged the comments away.

She leaned back in her chair. There was something else. There always was. "Actually, yes, just one final question. I need to test something before we get you home. Is that okay with you?" He nodded.

"It is alright." She pursed her lips.

"It may take a little longer than the other questions, but you need to stay awake for me. You are not tired, are you?" Of course he was. That was a stupid question, and he was not in the mood for stupid questions—but he needed to do what he could to get home.

"I am feeling better," he said to her. She did nothing in response but relax in her chair. He felt a little uneasy with her staring at him, but he was sure she was trying to think of the question she needed to ask. So he let his head roll to the window some several feet away from the bed (he hated being in the middle of the room, because he was far from each door beside him) and glanced at Dean standing with the doctor—Sid?—still with that same concern on his face. Why wasn't he home? He went home before; he left Cas despite their promise. Then again, Cas wanted him to go home, right?

He couldn't remember.

"You seem very attached to Dean outside," he heard her say. He rolled his head back to her, noticing the same smile still stuck to her face. He slowly blinked. Cas wanted to yawn, but she would write that down on her chart.

"Yes, we have a profound bond," he said to her. Her smile stayed. He was surprised. Whenever he said that to Dean's friends, they just stared at him as if they didn't know what he was talking about, while Dean was pushing him away from them and laughing about how he didn't know what he was talking about.

"Is that so?" She inquired. He was sure he had a smile on his face, but he felt a little numb in different places, so he wasn't so sure. She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, hands on her face; she looked like a little child. "You two must live together, then, right?"

Cas nodded again. "Of course."

She beamed. "Then, I would love to hear about your home. Can you do that for me, Castiel?"

He wanted to refuse; it was their home after all. It was their secret, the small secret they kept from everyone else. No one outside of their family would know where they lived. It was just them, and they were perfectly fine with it. "What would you like to know?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Well, maybe you can tell me what it looks like? That's all. You can close your eyes if you need to envision it, Castiel."

He nodded, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Then I will tell you of our home."

**x x x**

Dean's leg started to bounce, and he needed to wipe his mouth; he was getting nervous. What if Cas got something wrong? What if the nurse thought he needed to stay another week? The doctors gathered him outside the room that day to tell him of the possibility of Cas being discharged in a few days-a few days, almost after two and a half weeks of pain and suffering-but they told him to not give him false hope. "Castiel needs to understand that if he is not well enough to leave, then he cannot leave." And, boy, was that hell to tell Cas.

"What do you mean I will not go home?" Dean felt trapped in the angel's gaze, the anger seeping from his eyes.

"If you aren't doing well, you'll just need to be kept a little longer."

"I wish to go home," Cas quickly retorted. He was acting like a child, which was normal, according to the doctors telling him about the chemotherapy and tumor.

"Soon, alright? Just fight—you know how to do that," Dean regretted saying that, but it didn't seem to upset Cas too much; he was content.

Sid stood next to Dean. "What is she doing?" Dean muttered to the doctor, who was going through different MRI scans and charts for Cas. Dean couldn't tell you what was on them; he tried to understand, but medicine went over his head.

Sid glanced up for only a moment. "She is giving him a memory test, to make sure if the chemotherapy is altering anything," he grasped a scan of what appeared to be Cas's brain, to which he scanned it over. His brows furrowed. "Or, rather, the tumor." Dean turned to him.

"Is that bad?" Sid shook his head.

"Not necessarily." Which, according to the Winchester lifestyle, usually always meant yes. Dean sighed.

"Do you mind if I go and listen in?" Sid slid the slide away, contemplating for only a brief second or two before deciding.

"I don't see any harm. You can go ahead in," and Dean would've given no thought but charging in, but Sid saw it, holding him back for a moment. "but try not to attract attention from him. He needs to pass the test without any help, and if he looks at you," Dean looked back into the room, watching Cas stare at the woman in the chair, saying more and more of his story. "there could be a chance of remembering something he had a hard time recollecting," Of course, Dean thought. That's how it usually happened.

Dean nodded, understanding what could happen. "I will be outside the entire time, so if you wish to come back," Sid went back to his file, resting it on the tray next to the window. Dean breathed in and out. His hand rested on the silver handle of the door. It felt heavy. He gently pushed down on it, feeling the locks clicking away. Then he slowly pushed the door open; he could hear Cas talking about them. And when he poked his head in, only she glanced at his presence; Cas seemed to be focused on the story itself.

Quickly and quietly, the door shut behind him, and he tiptoed behind a curtain near the bed with another patient. He looked down at the little girl sleeping in the bed; she looked worse. He wondered if that was the road Cas would go down. But Dean just sat down in the empty chair and listened in. "Just close your eyes, Castiel, and let me in on a tour of your home." Dean could just imagine Cas's eyes closed, seeing everything right in front of him; just the spark of hope he still clung onto still there. Dean closed his eyes. Home, he thought.

_He didn't have to open his eyes to know he was home. He could feel the dirt road under his bare feet—he personally found walking around with bare feet a little treat to himself, so he could be closer to nature—and could see the line of trees travel to their home. Theirs, he thought, because it was theirs. It had always been theirs, and it was nothing more. He could look up at the sky and know that the stars above were only theirs; the stars weren't visible in the nearest city, not with all the lights to blind the wicked. And he knew the sun would be clear in the blue sky right then, casting down the shadows of the forest nearby._

_Finally, home. He had missed it. He could see the wooden cabin near. It was built by the two of them, and while it wasn't in the greatest shape, they always said it was a roof over their head. And they could not argue with that. There were holes in a few of the walls, the door looked atrocious, the windows were a little banged up from the harsh weather in recent times, but it was away from civilization. It was what they wanted._

"It sounds beautiful," they heard the nurse comment on the image. Dean could hear Cas hum in agreement, but he knew what part was missing:

_"Just you and me, Cas. I'm…tired." He remembered that day, on their final hunt. Dean would look to his partner, trying to catch his breath, and life couldn't get much better than that. They stopped another run with the apocalypse, another person trying to end the world—what was with everyone's obsession with ending the world? He didn't know. But it was raining that night, and the whole team looked exhausted. It had to be said._

Dean heard Cas continue.

_He saw the Impala still parked outside of the home, still sitting there with the intention it'll run with the wind. No matter what, it will never go away. The thing was cherished, and still is cherished, no matter what state, city, or country (god forbid one wanted to go to Mexico or Canada) it was in. It still shined under the bright sun, still looked as gorgeous as ever, and it was still part of the family (Dean just smiled at the mental image; he knew Cas would love that car eventually). Through it all, he smelled the familiarity of the air around. He's always loved the fresh air around, the cool air swirling around him as though he was flying. The pollen sometimes irritated him, and the flowers looked rather dead on some days, but he wouldn't change the scenery. He was used to the city, to everywhere else, but that was beauty untouched; no demons tainted it._

_At night, the trees would whisper nothing but quiet solace. It was always calm and soothing at night, as though the night watchmen were giving them reason to rest with ease on their minds and calamity in their hearts. Some days were vicious, especially with the weather—it was why the windows were scratched. The wind would knock some of the branches into the windows, create the loudest thundering noise, and the two inside the home would still be afraid. He hated storms, but it was easier to deal with when there was another watching over him. He took a step forward, but he felt guilty that it was the forest screaming in agony when it's treated him with such pleasure. Step by step, crack after crack, he could hear the silent screams echo in his mind, cursing him until the day he died._

_The wooden steps were beaten up and most likely rotting away, but the new finish on the porch was easy to step on. There was no chance to get a splinter, and the nice coat of glaze made the place stand out more. He promised to build something so the two of them could sit on the porch—perhaps a bench, or a couple chairs. Something to pass the time instead of being home; he needed a hobby. The door was something he found nearby in a junkyard, thanks to Bobby—maybe Bobby had some chairs or benches to spare. He would have to check. But the door was something him and the other agreed on, when first thinking about a quiet life. They argued about location, about what kind of house it would be, whether they'd build it—but when he stormed into the junkyard for the first time, and stumbled upon the door, it was then that he knew it would be a matter of time before the house was built._

_And almost six months later, the house was theirs. It was no wonder that when he opened the door, it was the same as it had ever been when he entered the house. Kitchen to the right, living room and dining room ahead of them, and there was a little office space to the left, separated by the walls of the home. He didn't have to close the door; there was no point. No one knew of their existence, and no one was going to walk into their territory._

Dean followed Cas through every step and turn. Everything was still there, all right where it should be. The nurse made no noise but the sound of a scribbling pen.

_He looked around. It was home. It was quaint, dusty, and maybe it needed a little bit of cleaning here and there—the dishes in the sink would be tackled first, and the both of them would agree to clean together—but it was home. He couldn't argue. "I will come to appreciate the domestic lifestyle, Dean." The couch still rested in front of the little television on the stand, the dining room still had envelopes on the table with some little snack one of them forgot to throw away, and he just took it all in. He could never get over the fact that it was their home, that there was a place to call home. Travelling around was never the most favorite thing in his life, but it was a way to get by. But now he could rest. And he was glad._

_Something wanted him to go to the bedroom, which was down a semi-narrow hallway on the left side. The light from outside trickled down the darkened hallway—he reminded himself to install some kind of light—which beckoned him to follow the light. So each step he took went closer and closer to the sun's light sparkling in the dark. The ground was always cold in the house, and he always forgot to wear some kind of socks around, but the floors always looked decent enough to not wear something. It wasn't like the two of them trekked mud into the home every single day. They couldn't complain._

"Why the bedroom, Castiel?" the nurse asked.

Cas continued on.

_Each step toward the bedroom could be his last, he thought, and it made it harder and harder to walk. His legs were starting to turn into stone, his feet didn't want to tread on ice, and his head was starting to hurt. He furrowed his eyebrows and wanted to close his eyes. He was close to the bedroom, so close that he could feel the fresh air from outside blow into the room, the sun's rays warming his skin to the touch. He wanted to rest against the wall, but there was no time—at least, he felt like there was no time. The door was not opened all the way, just a small crack inviting him inside, and he gave it his all to push it open with his hand._

_Their bedroom, he thought, and it wasn't long ago that it looked so much different. At that point, there was one bed, but at other points, there were two beds, which one bed would have two occupying at that point, too. "I am not rushing this, Cas. You know that. So, you know, that's why I got us two mattresses." The arrangement did not last a month (and there were little arguments between the three, wondering how sleeping situations would reside, but Sam was almost always stuck with the couch), but it was the thought that counted, he confirmed._

The nurse giggled. Dean sighed through his nose; no one was supposed to know of that story. Cas didn't seem to mind sharing, though.

_He heard the door open and close—someone was home. He could guess who; it was his other half. They believed in soulmates, and the profound bond was their link. He thought he heard the person call out and say something, but he was focusing on getting better. But it was becoming a hassle. Why was it so hard? Why couldn't everything be okay for once so that the two of them could be fine? What was so wrong with fine these days? He became frustrated as his own body as he heard the clicking of the shoes scream louder and louder down the hallway. And as the bedroom door opened, he opened his eyes and gave a small smile._

"Castiel?" The nurse called out. Dean still journeyed with Cas, still imagined walked through the door and seeing him there. He knew where they were in time, when everything was starting to collapse. But something was off. Something was—different.

_The pain was immense, the drilling still blinding his vision, but there was no misery in a place like home. There was no shelter for the rocks that gave him misfortune. So he smiled to the man in the doorway, motioning for the other to come sit with him—or lie with him, whichever the other preferred. He watched the man smile, walking toward him with a gleam in his eyes and a skip in his step. Soon enough, the two were lying on the bed together, staring up at the ceiling. Something about missing the other was mentioned, and their hands would join together at some point, but he didn't seem to notice at all._

Dean's eyes shot open.

**x x x**

Dean stood by the window of the room as the doctor and nurse conversed. His eyes couldn't tear away from Cas. "It appears that his memory is well enough, and the medicine seems to be working at an effective rate without any side effects."

But Dean shook his head. "He got it wrong," he whispered.

Sid looked up from the chart. "I beg your pardon?"

Dean knew. It didn't happen like that. He knew what day that was, where Cas was during that time, how he was feeling. Cas asked him for help. _Dean._ Dean noticed. And he wasn't away for long that day, either—in fact, he hadn't left the house. Cas went out on a walk on his own, and Dean was doing yardwork. And when Cas came back, he was in a daze. He knew, he understood, but Cas had forgotten. But why was it bothering him?

He turned his head to the doctor. He was going to repeat what he said, but then he realized: home. It wouldn't be occupied for another week if they knew. So he lied. "I said he didn't get anything wrong."

Sid smiled. "That's great news, Dean. He's improving, then." And Dean smiled.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

Sid brought his arm around Dean and pushed him forward. "Come. We'll start on the discharge papers."

**x x x**

_Brrrrrrrring._

_"Singer residence."_

"Hey, Bobby."

_"Dean?"_

"Yeah."

_"You okay?"_

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, it's just—he forgot something, Bobby."

_"A lot of people forget—"_

"No, okay, I know he wouldn't. He wouldn't forget that."

_"Well, what'd he forget?"_

"Just…he forgot something that happened at home, alright? And he—"

_"Boy, he's fine. He's been through a lot, you know."_

"…Yeah."

_"And so have you."_

"At least I'm healthy, right?"

_"Dean—"_

"He…he's being discharged tomorrow."

_"No kiddin'? Well, he must be improvin' if he's gettin' out of there."_

"But what if he's not?"

_"But what if he is? Dean, quit lookin' at the hell you've been in and have some damn faith."_

"And look where that got us."

**x x x**

The Impala's door slammed on Cas's side. He couldn't believe it; he was finally going home. Home, in just twenty to thirty minutes—he wished to never go into a hospital again, not until the chemotherapy treatments were needed. He could hear Dean thank the nurse and the doctor—why were their names so hard to remember?—and could hear them tell him to come back if any complications arise at home. No, home would be okay. It would be fine.

Open, shut; it was just the two of them inside the car. Dean sighed, then looked over at Cas. Cas didn't look back, but he did feel cold for some reason. Was it because of the Impala's interior on his skin? Maybe, he thought. "Ready, Cas?" Cas slowly turned his head to his partner, one giving a small smile on his face. Cas brought his hand out from under the small blanket the hospital gave him—why he needed it, he really couldn't say—and rested it on top of the seat. Dean warmed his hand right up.

Cas closed his eyes and smiled, leaning against the shell of the car. He could feel the windows being rolled down next to him, Dean just barely grazing over him, and the wind slightly cooling his sweating face—seriously, what was wrong with his body? Dean moved away. Cas relaxed. "Yes," he replied.

He swore he was flying when they drove away.

**x x x**

"Cas, we're not going to talk about it!"

"Dean—"

Cas looked over at Dean, who was staring down the black road ahead. His eyebrows were furrowed; his grip on the wheel was hard and tight; the free hand on his lap was drumming against his jeans; he was shifting every few seconds in his seat. Yes, he thought, it was a good idea to believe that Dean was pissed off. And he knew why: he was talking about the possibility of Death. "I don't understand why you do not want to talk about it. It is very possible that I will not live through this cancer."

Dean sped up. Cas could feel Baby purr and roar through the familiar setting around them. They had probably been on that road so many times, but Cas always felt a new bump in different spots. Dean flicked his eyes over to him for a moment. "Can we just drop it, Cas?" Eyes were back on the road; Baby was still purring. Cas would guess that Dean would reach over to the radio and turn up the music pouring out from the speakers—Led Zeppelin, he gathered—and he was right. Soon, he could hear "Stairway to Heaven" practically blaring from the car, and he would see Dean glance down every once in a while at it.

Cas sighed when it was turned off altogether. He did not know if it was a good or bad thing when Dean muted the music, but he saw the man loosen up a bit—at least his knuckles were not so white. "Look," Dean shifted again, turning the wheel onto their dirt road. Cas looked out the windshield; home. He was so close. He could almost feel the wooden floors under his feet. "I'm not about to lose you, you know?"

"Yes," Cas responded. He knew.

"So let's just worry about you getting better, okay? We'll—we're going to get through this, alright?" Cas turned to his partner.

He nodded. "I promise," he whispered, turning back to the windshield. Dean turned his head to the angel in the passenger seat, wondering what was going on in his head, but he just smirked. A promise was all he could hope for—it was a start. He turned back to the road, and heard the weak voice next to him say the thought he had. "Were we expecting someone?"

The car started to slow. "No," Dean worried. It was unfamiliar. It just sat where the Impala would be, right next to the house. Someone was there. Someone was looking for them. How did they get found out? Of all the things that could happen in Dean's life—

The Impala stopped. Cas looked at Dean, who was tearing the keys out of the ignition. "Dean?"

Dean pushed the door open. "Stay here." And Cas wanted to reach out and grab him, in fear that someone was actually hunting them down, but he also feared of losing the strength to keep himself upright (when did he get so weak?). All he could do was watch as Dean crept to the house, hunched down, reaching for a knife inside the back of his jeans—seriously, he could never go places without it.

Dean knew this would happen. One day, they would be found. One day, there would be someone out looking for them both, and they would have to leave. They would have to go somewhere else, somewhere far away. And that'd be it. He slunk behind the car in front of the house—a '73 Mustang. At least the owner had some good taste. He looked down at the plates for a second; Ohio. His eyes wandered back to the door. Any moment, he thought. The hunter would come out with a gun in their hands, in hopes of shooting whoever was there, and they'd see the Impala, and probably see Cas in the car and start walking toward him, and when the man's back was to him, Dean would—

The door opened. His eyes widened, and he rose from the ground.

"Sam," Dean breathed. Sam turned his head and gave a small little wave.

"Hey, Dean."

Cas smiled as the two brothers met each other halfway, each step a parallel with the other. And Dean wouldn't care about the chick flick moment—no one was there to see them, anyway. Their arms were spread out and that would be it. Their bodies would be together—he was sure Dean was cursing him out for not answering his phone, and Sam would be apologizing—and the both of them would be glad to know that they were each okay. He relaxed against the interior of the Impala and just watched the brothers snap back to reality, talking about something—perhaps where Sam was, and what Dean had been up to—and frowned.

He wondered what life would be like without him there; the thought vanished.

He made a promise. He remembered that.

And he'd do it all for the two boys.

He remembered that, too.

But there was something else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thought everything would be better when Sam was home.
> 
> He realized he was wrong a moment too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching closer to the death--it'll come next chapter. Also, kudos to anyone who figured out a little trick I did in the series. Ha. Enjoy!

**x**

_I won't let you fly,  
I won't say goodbye,  
I won't let you slip away from me._

**x**

Dean thought everything would be better when Sam was home.

He realized he was wrong a moment too late.

**x x x**

They had a routine.

Get up around 5 in the morning, make sure Cas was still breathing. He always was, but Dean always wanted to make sure. The machine next to him had to be kept plugged in at all times of the day, and even if the noise was familiar now, it was still a blaring reminder of the sickness creeping through the house. Dean would have to check his temperature—some days, it would be a quick check of his forehead. Other time, a thermometer; Cas preferred the hand to forehead method. "That stick tastes very bitter."

(Dean's rebuttal always seemed to be along the lines of "Well, it's either in your mouth or where the sun doesn't shine." Cas would reply: "But the sun does not shine in my mouth, either." Dean found that ample opportunity to stick the thermometer in his mouth.)

If his temperature was high, make a cold washcloth to rest on his head to wipe the sweat away. If it was okay, then he could go take a shower. Most days, it was okay. The days where it was high, though, he didn't mind helping his partner. "Cas, it's going to feel cold," he'd whisper in the sleepless morning. The sun was barely showing outside the window every time the washcloth hit his face; Cas just leaned into the touch with his eyes closed. And when Cas would open those eyes, a shimmering blink of hope would shine. It'd disappear when his eyelids closed so he could rest, but a small "thank you, Dean" would echo on the silent walls.

The shower was always fantastic. It was when Dean could be alone for ten to fifteen minutes, leaving him to think for himself. And, those hot pellets of water always felt so great on his tense muscles, the steam making him perfectly drowsy. Sure, he could probably wake up better with cold water, but the hot water was there to use. Most of the time, however, the thoughts led to Cas's medicine, Cas's appointments, Cas's sustenance, Cas, Cas, Cas. He could only remember one incident when he thought about himself, and Cas was groaning in the next room in agony. Dean figured it was his fault, but they both knew it was the chemotherapy.

After the shower, he'd get ready to go to the garage. He hated leaving Cas alone—well, not alone. Sam was there around the house, sleeping in the living room ("There's no way I'm sleeping in the same room as you two." "It's not like we're doing it, Sam. Jesus, the dude's sick." "I'm very tired."), but he felt obligated to stay with Cas at all hours of the day, just to make sure he was okay. He also hated the looks at the garage—they all said pity. But he'd open the closet every day, searching for some shirt. And when he was happy with the shirt (he'd like to think Cas would approve), slip on a pair of pants, then turn around.

Cas would always be sleeping. He was always so exhausted. "These pills are not very helpful if I cannot keep my eyes open," Cas said one morning over breakfast (him and Dean sometimes had breakfast in bed, because it was hard to walk after chemotherapy sessions, especially the day after). Dean chewed on his food.

"Well," some crumbs spilling out, "maybe all this rest is killing off whatever's killing you." It was the last time Cas said anything about the pills (except when he needed them when the alarms went off, along with the aspirins he sometimes wanted because of the headaches).

Dean would glance at one of the clocks in the room. It was usually always near 5:45 AM, which meant he had about an hour to himself—whether it was to himself, personally, or to Cas. Most of the time, he'd sit by Cas's side until Sam would announce that he made breakfast. During those times with Cas, Dean blanked out. He couldn't be able to tell you what he did, exactly. Maybe he prayed to someone; maybe he was wishing on a dark star out in the universe for something to change; maybe he was wondering how Cas would take his pills sleeping most of the day. After chemotherapy sessions, the mornings after, he knew he would hold Cas's hand because of the groaning he'd make. Those days were the worst. Those days meant Dean would not get any sleep.

If he didn't stay by his side after getting dressed for work, he'd wander out in the living room and see an empty room. Sam usually liked to go on walks near the lake for a few minutes, just to watch the sunrise. Dean didn't blame him. It was relaxing in their world, something they never had before. Maybe some days he'd find that all to be boring, but it beat the hell out of facing Death on some of the hunts in the past. Dean would take the time to clean up whatever was laying around in the place—dirty dishes would go in the sink, leftover food in the trash, blankets over the couch, pillows thrown on the couch. After that, Sam would always come back.

And for that hour, life was good. His brother would always smile, tell him "Good morning, Sunshine," because Dean was never a morning person in the first place. Dean would most likely tell him to shut up—or he'd tell his younger sibling he wouldn't get any breakfast if and when Dean would cook, which always made Sam laugh. They wouldn't talk about much when they were eating. Some days, Sam would discuss details of his latest "hunt" to find another hunter for Bobby.

"It was different, to say the least. I didn't have to worry about it being a shapeshifter or something," he said to Dean. "Just a boring, regular human."

After breakfast, Sam would start doing the load of dishes from the night before and the breakfast they had. Dean would scramble to find his Baby's keys (they're always on the table next to the door, but who the hell remembers that when they're going to work?) and to try and put on his shoes at the same time. Some days, Dean would fall over trying to do too many things at once, which would prompt Sam to laugh in his older brother's face about one day wanting to become a ballerina. A few grumbles here and there would set things right in the household.

Before Dean would leave, he'd give some excuse to go back into his bedroom ("I left my wallet in there," when his wallet would be on the dining table, or "I should get another pair of socks, in case I get grease on them" when he knew he never had once gotten grease on his socks). He just wanted a minute to make sure Cas was okay, because if he wasn't, Dean would call into the garage in a heartbeat. He almost had once, to break the routine, but Sam encouraged him to go to work. "I'll be here, Dean. If anything happens, you know I'll call."

He never did.

After a minute of checking on Cas, Dean would tell him that he'd be back in the night, just in time for supper. Sometimes, Cas would respond with a grunt or a groan, but nothing more than that. Dean wanted him to rest, and rest he would get. So before he was out the door, the same speech was applied to Sam all the time: "Make sure he eats something around 11, he always had a meal at the hospital at that time. His pills should be taken directly after the meal. If he tells you he doesn't want to go outside, push his ass out the door. Make sure he gets to sit outside at least for an hour, I don't want him sleeping all day. And so help me God, Sam, if anything happens—" which was usually the cue for Sam to reply with:

"Alright, alright, I got it. Go to work."

He'd go to work, work on cars, hear about the different stories from the men around, and have people ask him all the time how Cas was. "How's he doin' there, Dean?" "Is he okay?" "How many sessions has he gone to now?" "Is he going to be alright?" "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with him?" Dean never answered them, since Bobby was always there to tell them to knock it off before he knocked some heads in. And Bobby? Well, he came and went in the routine. Sometimes, he'd be there for support for Dean (especially after another round of chemotherapy), and other times he'd be a no-show. Which was fine for him; he'd rather work on cars than talk about his feelings.

During the day, especially when he could get a little snack around the garage, he'd text Cas. Nothing long, maybe just a _"how are you feeling"_ or _"hey there, old blue eyes"_ , just to tease him. On occasion, Cas would reply with simple texts: _"better than yesterday"_ was the standard reply, followed by a _"I hope you are well"_ , which always prompted Dean to want to punch the guy for worrying about him again. _"I don't understand that still, Dean"_ would be for when Dean teased him about old blue eyes, which gave him a smile. He'd understand it someday. Other times, there would be no replies. It'd be unanswered, left alone, and Dean always worried if something happened to him while he was sleeping. Sam always came around to save the day: _"Stop texting him, he needs sleep."_

Then he'd be on his way home. It was just down the road some ways, straight shot out. He'd always get home in ten to fifteen minutes, and the same thing was always there to welcome him. Instead of having Cas sit outside during the day (like he always told Sam), Cas would be sitting on the swinging chair on the porch, rocking back and forth to the wind that blew through. Dean was always eager to get out and hear the "Welcome home, Dean" come from the man. "It's good to be home," he'd always reply, sitting down next to his partner on the chair. And there they would sit, watching the sunset—as romantic as that sounded, Cas usually had his eyes closed while Dean told him about his day. As much as Cas wanted to keep his eyes open, he was still very exhausted. Sam would always venture outside to tell them dinner was ready, but most of the time he just left the two of them alone.

Sometimes, Cas would surprise Dean. He instead would tell him a story. "Sam and I took a walk today," he'd say. Dean would crack a joke about how they were not about to get themselves into a ménage à trois, and Cas would shake his head from side to side. "I am not expecting that to happen. All we did was walk around the lake," and Dean would slightly chuckle at the comment. It was the little things in the routine he enjoyed.

After a while, when it was getting darker, they'd venture inside to eat. Dean would help Cas up from the chair and have his arm wrapped around the other's for support. At times, he struggled. Little baby steps was all Dean asked for, but Cas was a fighter, and wanted to prove that he was strong. It didn't work when he and Dean were falling, especially when the ground was not the place Dean wanted to be after a long day at the garage. But they'd manage to get inside, sit down, eat with Sam, and enjoy a meal.

Well, most days.

There were a few days when the meal would be left to sit because Dean would get frustrated at Cas, or Cas would get frustrated at Dean. Or, Sam would spark the frustration and make everyone so damn frustrated that it gave everyone a headache. But Dean didn't like to add those into the routine. They were just nuances.

After the meal came a shower for Cas. Cas always told Dean: "I can do this myself, you know." But Dean would shake his head and give a little eyebrow wiggle. "Yeah, but it's more fun when you have company, you know." It always turned into a shower for the two of them, with Sam in the living room trying to drown out any noises he would hear (they kept it to a minimum, of course, if and when the noises would occur). After the shower came more pills for Cas ("How do they expect me to eat when my stomach is full of medication?"), which always seemed to either make him lethargic, or he'd become stubborn. Most of the time, it was lethargic, but Dean wouldn't complain about the stubbornness part. It would mean that the three of them would spend time in the living room, watching some TV show.

If he was lethargic, Dean would put him to bed. He would tell you he did not give him a bedtime story (much to Sam's teasing), but he'd sit on the bed with Cas, watching him fall asleep. He'd make sure he'd go to sleep, at least—it helped when he held him (much to Cas saying it didn't). Some days, he'd fall asleep with Cas. But that was rare.

Most of the time, he'd go out to the living room and stay up with Sam, drinking. Most of the time, Sam would ask how Cas was doing, something Dean was avoiding. Most of the time, Dean would answer the questions. Most of the time, Dean would tell Sam to stop asking about it and to just watch the damn TV show on the screen. Most of the time, Sam would tell him that it's a serious problem, that he can't just ignore it. And, most of the time, Dean would shrug the problem away; he just wanted to bond with his brother, was that so much to ask for someone?

Finally, around 11 PM, Dean would get to bed. He'd take a long, lasting look at Cas, making sure he was still asleep, making sure the IV bag was still there, the machine still beeping, and he'd set his own alarm to get up in the morning. He'd lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, remembering so many memories he'd want to leave behind, but he'd turn his head to Cas to make sure he was still there. His back was always to him (one night Cas was turned to Dean, which made Dean worry because the wires were getting tangled up in his arms and body) and Dean would always trickle his fingertips along his back, to make sure he was still there. He always was. It'd never wake him up, but it was the thought of making him move just a hair that counted in his book.

And at 11:30 PM, Dean would fall asleep.

Rinse and repeat, he thought.

**x x x**

Castiel's routine was simple—simple enough to list:

Sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, eat, fight with Sam about going outside, sleep, sleep, wake up, eat more, pills, sit outside, Dean, supper, shower (with Dean), pills, sleep.

Sometimes, it had variety:

Sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, eat, walk around the lake with Sam and talk to him, go home, sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, sleep, wake up, sit outside, Dean, supper, shower (with Dean), pills, TV, sleep.

Other times, it was terrible:

Pain, pain, pain, pills, eat, pain, pain, pills, sleep, wake up to pain, pain, support from Sam, eat, pain, sit outside, Dean, supper, fight, sleep.

Nothing interesting happened when Cas was home. Usually, he took comfort in the bed. While he felt terrible that he was practically a "sitting duck" (he was not a duck, he told Sam, but Sam just laughed), there was nothing he could do about it. The tumor in his head made the room spin on occasion, and when he would stand up, things would suddenly turn into two of the same thing, or his legs would turn into jelly. So he took comfort in staying in bed. It wasn't as though he had nothing to do, more or less. Dean always made sure a book was on his nightstand, in case he wanted to read (which he did, of course; when he would be done with the book, Sam would always return from town with three new ones, ones he either had read before but long ago, or ones he'd never read at all). Sam would give him the newspaper to do these puzzles inside (the crossword was his favorite), and he'd take the time to do them while thinking.

Some of those thoughts turned into actions, which made Sam panic because he didn't want to make Dean panic (which was probably the worst thing, because Cas remembered one incident when Cas had hit his head on the headboard, and Dean did a thorough scan of whether his head was cracked open—needless to say, Cas made sure he was far from the headboard). They weren't dangerous; Cas just wanted to walk around. He could do that most days, make sure his legs were still working, and keeping the strength in them, at least. Sam always came into the room whenever Cas was getting up, though, and told him that he'd help him get stronger—which prompted a walk around the lake every now and again.

Sam, Cas thought. He was a very hard worker, and he felt sorry for the younger sibling—for both siblings, really. They hadn't asked for something like that, for cancer, and yet, here was Castiel, once an angel of the Lord, sitting in a bed with cancer in his head. Sam never complained, though. "It's better than hunting demons," he'd remark, which was true in every sense. Sam was smart. Dean? Well: "Cas, I do it because I want to, alright?" It didn't make him feel any better.

So his (and Sam's, judging for the fact that Sam sat around the house and watched TV, or went out to the town to get food) routine was okay.

**x x x**

Cas was at the hospital. It was nothing serious. He was there for his last chemotherapy round. As much as Cas wanted to get better, he really dreaded the hospital because of the rounds of chemotherapy in his body. He'd enter the hospital feeling better than normal, leave feeling a little rundown, but nothing serious—then he'd get home feeling the worst he'd ever felt from the sessions. He'd sit inside the bathroom most of the time feeling very nauseous, too weak to get up from the floor sometimes. The little ripples of the water teasing him every time he breathed, which made it hard to keep something in his stomach without burning his esophagus.

When he wasn't in the bathroom, it was either Sam or Dean forcing him to do something, which was never the best thing to do. Granted, the doctors told him: "You will be very irritated and moody at times. It's normal." So Sam should have known not to bother him when he wanted to sleep, or Dean should have known that he did not need to eat when all he would do was vomit over the meal once it hits hi nostrils. And, yes, the doctors told them that he should eat "whenever possible", but the medicine was not helping anything to keep it inside his body the moment it entered.

The nights were the worst on those days. He always felt terrible about Dean losing sleep at all hours of the night (one session was on a Friday, so Dean told him it wasn't a huge deal because he could sleep the weekend away), especially over something as trivial as a tumor. But Cas could not help the pain spreading from one side of his head to the other, feeling as though there was a crack down the middle of his skull and ripping both sides apart. He also could not help it when he had to scream out whenever the pain became blinding. Dean's comfort and support did not help during those hours, and neither did the help Sam tried to give with cold washcloths and cold water with aspirin. He was thankful for their help, but not even the rocking back and forth in Dean's arms could help him get over the pain those days.

As much as that sounded serious, it really was not. Cas had been through worse.

Dean, however, thought it was the most serious thing Cas could do during the day. Sam usually took him to the hospital ("Dean, as serious as it is, you need to work. You need to pay for the bills somehow", which Dean replied with: "But it's Cas, Sam! I can't just let him sit there by himself!" Sam instantly reassured him that Cas would not be alone; Dean reluctantly obliged) and both the Winchesters had to deal with the results of the medicine. From the small groans throughout the day to the scrambling to breathe at night, Dean knew it was not something he could shrug away, as though it meant nothing to them at all. It changed their lives; it was enough.

Dean closed his eyes. He was ready for it all to be over with, and even that was an understatement. He wanted his normal routine back, where all Cas and him would do was whatever they wanted, really. And to have Sam back? It was as though a dream was coming true, to have his whole family right there by his side; God wanted nothing to do with granted dreams. Dean listened to the different screams from nights with chemotherapy, from the days after, and he opened his eyes.

It was probably the most nerve-wracking experience he could ever have, especially if it meant that Cas was finally going to be done with chemotherapy. Dean never thought the day would come when the doctors finally told him about the last three cycles. As excited as he was, the doctors warned him: "It does not mean he is out of the woods, necessarily. After the tests, we should give you a definite prognosis on the cancer and its status on his body." Dean shrugged the comment away. It meant Cas was getting healthier. It meant something.

The emergency doors flew open. Both of them looked to see a familiar face in the doorway. "Come right this way, Castiel," said Sid, who was holding the clipboard. "I was not expecting to see you here, though, Dean. Have the day off?"

Dean shrugged. "You can say that."

(In all honesty, he called Bobby a few minutes before leaving for the hospital, which he was none too happy about. "Boy I'm already short two others. What could you be doin' right now?" And when Dean told him, there was just a sigh. "Alright, but you better get here when I need ya," which Dean accepted.)

Dean had never been where Cas usually had to go; Cas knew it all too well. It was up three floors (the music never changed), which the elevator stopped every floor up, and ding! To the left was oncology, some other office, and the desk where people were scrambling. To the right was where Cas went, to the room that said "TREATMENT" in big bold letters. Cas never held onto anything for support, especially when he was already getting stronger by the days, but with Dean there, he was a bit nervous. "What if this last round does nothing?" he whispered.

Dean took hold of his hand. It sufficed.

"Don't be nervous, Castiel," was heard as Sid pushed the door open; there was no one inside. Dean raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"No other patients comin' in today, doc?"

Sid smiled. "Later, we do have some scheduled appointments. But, for now, you get the pleasure of having your own room." It sounded odd to Dean. He figured it would be a little packed, considering how many patients there were in Oncology when they were in the ward. Cas paid no attention to the loneliness in the room. It wasn't any better with patients inside anyhow.

Sophia kept her back turned to the two in hand, playing with the monitors and needles, the machine whizzing through time and space to enter Cas's system. Dean was a bit nervous; he squeezed the hand. Cas turned his head. "You seem more nervous than I am," came out of Cas's mouth.

Dean shrugged. "Excited, maybe."

Sophia turned around. A small smile was on her face, but Cas tilted his head. It showed one of sorrow and lament. He let go (well, Dean let go, seeing as how Sophia needed his arm for the treatment) and sat down in the rather large chair that always seemed to be deemed his from the start. She looked down, the smile still on her face. "Oh, Castiel, I'll miss you, you know," she cried.

Cas gave a small nod for thanks. "You will be delighted when I am not in your presence," he replied back. Then, something strange occurred, something he had not experienced since his time in Heaven, and even so it was odd in the clouds. She brushed his hair away from his blue eyes, uncovering his forehead, but he could only feel two fingers. Two, when she was using her entire hand. It was a very old trick, one the angels knew—he just eyed her.

She sighed. "Yes, but I grew very fond of you," she whispered in return.

Dean watched the needles soon stab into his arms, a small twitch from the prick and pain he endured. Dean leaned toward his partner. "You okay?"

Cas nodded. "I am fine, Dean," and he believed him.

The machines whirred next to them, and Dean watched as color and life went through Cas the moment it began. It was as though his skin breathed and enjoyed healthiness for the first time in all of its existence. Cas closed his eyes in contentment, feeling immensely better with the medicine starting to pump through his veins. They both knew it would not last, but the idea of having and seeing a healthy, vibrant Cas made Dean tremendously relieved, and Cas felt reborn again.

They both thanked God in their silent prayers for the entire hour, even with the doctors telling them their chances were slim with test results.

They were content.

**x x x**

Dean held him as tight as he could, wrapping his arms around Cas's body. He could see the clock on the nightstand read 2:47 A.M. He would have to be at work in mere hours, and there was no point in sleeping, not when Cas was biting on his lip, bleeding into the sheets and shirt Dean happened to wear to bed (which was bloodied in the first place). He could feel the small trembles Cas was having while feeling the pain in his head; he could hear the soft cries of "help" and "stop" come from the small body in his arms, the shaking, dying man that felt helpless; he could say all the comforting things Cas would want to hear, but it did nothing but make things worse.

Sam came and went through the night, offering aspirin and cold washcloths to Cas whenever he could. Dean thanked him for Cas, knowing the angel would appreciate the help he was given if he was able to talk without groaning in pain. At times, it would stop altogether, and Dean would continue to hold his lover in his arms, even if Cas was telling him he was "fine, I'm fine" but the heavy breathing was still there. The small trembles still came and went. It would not stop.

Not until a few days later, when Cas could finally sleep the pain away with medicine.

Then—and only then could Dean ask God for another favor, another miracle to come their way. Anything, he thought—even the simplest thing like having Cas stay up for more than 5 hours would be enough.

He just wanted what was necessary.

**x x x**

It worked.

**x x x**

A miracle was performed and no one questioned it, just how they planned. Dean noticed how much stronger and healthier Cas looked. It had only been a few weeks, but he looked so much better. Relief washed over him.

**x x x**

It was liberating to take out the IV bags, the moment the hospital called about his results. "It looks like you're getting healthy enough, Castiel. It's very good news. You still need to take your medicine every day, but it seems the chemotherapy has worked."

Dean was anxious to get the needle out of his arm. "I don't want to rip up your vein, you know," he said to Cas. Cas just stared at the needle.

"I doubt you are capable of tearing the vein, Dean," he replied.

Dean shrugged. "Well, with the Winchester luck, you never know what could possibly happen."

Cas was relieved to see his vein still intact.

**x x x**

Sam was finally able to leave without worrying if anything could happen to Cas. Dean was practically pushing him out of the house, too. "Go and do whatever you do, Sammy. Cas has the fort on lockdown."

"Yeah, because we both know you'd screw it up if it were up to you," Sam retorted. Cas made a non-committed noise from the dining table, cleaning up the breakfast scraps left. Dean lightly punched his brother in the arm.

"Shut up, you know damn well I'd be the best housekeeper."

"Yeah, yeah," said Sam, who was still being pushed out by Dean. He didn't want to look back at the little scene between the two.

"Do you want me to pick us up anything after work?" Dean asked him. Cas shook his head.

"We seem to be fine with food," and Dean nodded.

"Well, alright then. I'll see you tonight, alright?" Cas gave a small nod.

"As always."

Sam figured it was the closest they'd ever get to expressing any kind of feelings in front of his own brother, so he felt liberated to tease Dean on his way to town.

It gained him a bruise on his arm.

**x x x**

"Let's go out, Cas."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Uh, well—"

"I have heard there is some kind of pie festival 20 miles west of here."

"Well—"

"And you are not very subtle about surprises when you leave the flyers around the house."

"You sort of ruin surprises most of the time, Cas."

"I would love to partake in this festival. It has been a while since we have gone out."

"Really?"

"Is that what you had in mind?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't think you'd want to go. I could always bring Sam."

"I beg to differ. You must have other plans for us, Dean, or you would have gone with Sam in the first place."

"You know, you always know what's on my mind."

"I have always known."

**x x x**

It was the first time in months that Cas took care of the lawn outside. Cas liked being outside, as much as possible. He didn't do much around the lawn, just planting seeds for their small garden (Dean obliged to have it, even though he didn't want to look like a housewife taking care of it; "You would not be taking care of such plants. I would not ask you to," replied Cas) and trimming the trees. The cool air was satisfactory, and he could finally tend to the little things that mattered to the world.

Dean watched him from the kitchen window above the sink, with Sam next to him. "He seems to be enjoying himself," Sam remarked. "Maybe he's having a love affair with nature."

Dean smirked. "Those trees don't know how to treat him at night. You should know."

The remark earned Dean a face full of dish soap and water.

**x x x**

_Crash!_

Dean turned around on the couch to see Cas standing by the sink. A shattered plate was on the ground, along with bits of food. Dean groaned. "You okay?" He worried about Cas bleeding. Perhaps he cut himself accidentally (he did that sometimes, the weirdo). Cas kept his back to Dean as much as he could.

He stared down at his hand. His other hand grabbed it, rubbing his palm; he side-stepped as Dean moved closer. "Of course," he replied. Cas's eyes drifted down to his hands for a brief moment before he felt Dean next to him, grabbing the towel from off the countertop.

He swore it was shaking.

**x x x**

It was another day, another dinner. It was ribs with potatoes, something Cas always came to like. Sam sat down next to him. "You know, Dean, the food will get cold if you spend so much time putting them on the plate." Dean set the plates down, not without nudging the edge of the plate into Sam's head.

"Shut up, at least you're getting fed," he replied, sitting down with his food in front of him. Cas stared down at the food. He could feel his stomach grumbling, could hear the pains in the pit of the stomach, but he just stared. He swallowed. He was hungry, but he was not rushing to eat. Why? Cas glanced up at the two brothers, who were bantering back and forth about each other (which would cause Sam to stare down his older brother while Dean had a smug look on his face when he poked his food with the fork) then back to his food.

His hand slid over the fork. "You gonna just stare at the food or actually eat it?" mumbled Dean next to him, whose face was full of barbeque sauce already. Sam cautiously eyed the former angel. The fork was light in his hand at previous dinners, but why was it suddenly a tiny bit heavier? Cas tightened his grip as hard as he could around the fork; his strength was weaker.

He just smirked and stabbed the food with the fork. "I was merely wondering where to start," Cas lied. Dean just nodded, saying something along the lines of: "He knows good food when he sees it, Sammy. He's never done that before with your food." Cas felt the food on the tip of his tongue, the meat crunching between his teeth, the fork slipping out of his mouth. It was delicious, yes, but the moment he took in the food, the moment it started travelling down his throat, he felt the urge to throw it back up.

He stabbed his food again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left of his plate. "Oh, man, I don't think I can move," Sam leaned back in his chair, hands on his stomach. Both the Winchester brothers had two servings of food, while Cas only had one. Dean was practically licking the sauce off his fork before rising from the table. Cas merely threw the fork on the plate. He was full, of course, but he feared it would all come out once he moved.

Dean looked down at his partner. "Want to help me with the dishes?" he asked. Cas's blue eyes met with Dean's green—a glint in his eyes. Cas always knew Dean wanted to spend more time with him because of the lost time from hospital visits, but it usually never happened, especially with the garage to tend to during the day.

Cas nodded. "I will help you, Dean. I must first use the restroom."

Dean took the plate from the table as Cas rose. "Cas, we've been through this. It's called the bathroom."

Yes, that's right, he thought. He remembered now.

Cas quickly nodded. "Of course. Excuse me," he hurriedly said, turned away from Dean, who was beginning to worry about something. Baby steps, Cas thought, that's all he had to do. He just needed to get to the bathroom. Dean would not follow him, or hover over him—there were dishes that needed to be cleaned (which, as soon as Cas turned into the bedroom, he could hear the faint AC/DC songs emit from the radio in the kitchen). Cas closed the door.

In a matter of minutes, pieces of his ribs floated in the water beneath him.

His head rested against his arm, which prompted him to close his eyes.

He would have asked why, but he knew. Cas opened his eyes; fresh water pooled.

Dean heard the second song finish, allowing the DJ to talk more about tour information about some old band getting back together. He placed the dirty cup in the sink again, looking back toward the bedroom. "He's been in there for a long time," he remarked.

Sam came out from the extra room with some book (it must have been one of Cas's, since he liked to collect them) in his hands, looking down the hallway. "He's just doing his business, Dean, just like the rest of us."

Dean threw the towel down on the counter. "He's never in there that long." Sam stood out of the way as Dean walked back to the bedroom, opening the door slowly. It was silent. He remembered the last time—he remembered it all. Dean felt a fit of panic in his chest, something that sparked him to go back to the beginning when it all began. He took in a deep breath, then started to walk toward the closed bathroom door.

Cas reached up to the handle and heard the rush of the water spiral downward. He watched as his dinner disappeared, just like that.

Then, a small knock at the door. "Hey, Cas?" Cas quickly rose to his feet, his eyes casting upon the big mirror over the sink. He looked like he had somehow ran for a few minutes, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. The bottoms of his eyes were pink. He couldn't dry his hair in time when he would open the door to Dean's face, but he grabbed the small towel on the counter to wipe the evidence away. And when he'd look back at his reflection, it was as though nothing was wrong.

Perfect.

"You okay in there?" asked Dean, who had his ear pressed against the door. He was not expecting the door to suddenly whip open; he stumbled into the bathroom with Cas.

"I am fine, Dean," he said, looking at the worry in Dean's eyes disappearing instantaneously. "I must have eaten too much. I apologize."

Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's no big deal. I was just worried you fell in or something," which Cas tilted his head.

"That is quite impossible," and Dean chuckled, shaking his head all the while. He wrapped his arm around Cas's shoulders, still looking at the man.

"Never change." And they began to walk back to the kitchen.

Cas felt like a disappointment with every step he took. He was glad he could lean against Dean.

Otherwise, he was sure he would fall.

**x x x**

"Dean."

They locked eyes.

"What is it, Cas?"

He forgot.

He wanted to tell something important to Dean, he was sure of it. The moment he stepped foot inside their house, however, he somehow forgot. He shrugged it off and pulled out something from the bag.

"We have more summer sausage."

It wasn't the only time when that had happened. Cas would be talking to Bobby on the phone, which Bobby told Cas to tell Dean: "He doesn't have to come in tomorrow. I'm gonna give the boys a day off." And Cas knew his orders.

As soon as he went outside to see Dean leaning over the engine of Baby, he forgot why he was outside in the first place. Dean just smiled. "You come out to finally learn how to take care of her?" Cas shook his head.

"You deserve proper company instead of talking to an inanimate object."

The next day, Dean asked him about it. "Why didn't you tell me about having a day off, Cas? I could have slept in!"

Cas placed a plate in the cupboard. "My apologies. It must have slipped my mind."

Dean didn't put two and two together for the other times. He just knew Cas had a lot "slipping his mind."

**x x x**

He should have known.

**x x x**

Dean was going out with the other guys from the garage. Every once in a while, he'd go out to the bars with them, play darts, shoot some pool, and have some fun. And every once in a while, in some rare occurrence, Cas would be invited. He'd never turn down the invitation, and Dean knew that night would be no exception. "Hey, some of the guys are at the bar down the road. Want to tag along?"

Cas nodded. He replied with a "of course" and rose from the couch. He would have moved, but he was seeing double. The room was spinning, he was sure he was swaying, and he felt suddenly lightheaded from sitting on the couch for so long—yes, that had to be the reason. Dean stood near him, with Sam leaning forward. "You okay?" Sam asked. He held out a palm to Cas, because he looked as though he was going to fall backwards.

Cas had an inkling that Sam was putting the puzzle together. Dean, too. But it was probably his mind playing tricks on him. Again, he nodded. "Yes. I just stood up too fast," he lied. Dean just eyed him.

"Alright, well, we're leaving in about ten minutes, so get movin'," he ordered. Cas obliged. A few steps down the hall, step into the room, and close the door—privacy. He was tired, and weak, and he could feel the itchy feeling in the back of his head. He knew he should not go out, but Dean would interrogate him on why he would not go out, and he did not want to spark suspicion.

(Meanwhile, Dean ignored the problem while Sam expressed concern. "Dean, he's not looking too good. He hasn't been for the last couple weeks now." Dean knew it was true. He could see the little things happening again, but he refused to believe it.

"He's fine, Sam." Sam looked over the couch and followed Dean as he moved toward the door.

"Come on, Dean, don't tell me—"

"I said he's fine." Sam huffed.

"You know I'm right." And that was it.)

Cas pulled a button-down over his shoulders, his arms slipping through the sleeves, and looked at the plaid pattern. He was feeling nauseous just looking at the pattern spinning in the mirror. His fingers started shaking as he felt the button rest on his thumb. It was taking him nearly five minutes just to put on a shirt, when it would normally take him just a minute.

No, he had to fight it. He was a soldier. He experienced worse.

He straightened his posture. As much as he felt the need to go into the bathroom and empty his stomach, he would fight for Dean. It was all for him. He did not deserve to deal with such misery.

Dean, on the other hand, knew something was wrong. From the frequent bathroom trips to sleeping later and later in the day ("I had a long night," which Dean knew was a lie), there was something wrong. Perhaps Cas was just coming down with an illness, something that could be fixed with over-the-counter medicine. Then he'd be back on his feet again in no time. Still, Dean worried, he hated listening to the strained silence in their bedroom as Cas prepared for the night.

Usually, he just knew what was going on behind closed doors, especially when Cas would be getting ready (the guy liked talking through outfits, saying "Dean would like this here" or "He is wearing this color already"). But there was nothing. Just slight, heavy breathing on both sides.

He knocked on the door.

Cas turned his head.

"You all ready in there? It's not like we're going somewhere extravagant," Dean sarcastically said. His remarks usually prompted a "I know, Dean" from him, but there was nothing.

Cas started to walk.

It felt like flying.

He had to fight.

Fight, Castiel.

Dean heard Cas grip the doorknob, but he didn't turn it right away. He was holding onto it, as though he were struggling. Dean felt such pain in his chest, biting his lips to not think about it, and he wished the door would open.

Cas felt the cold metal in his hands. Turn the knob, he thought. He could see his hand spinning, but his strength was gone.

He couldn't open the door.

Dean reached out to the doorknob. "I'm—I'm gonna come in, alright?" he questioned through the door. No reply.

Cas had his mouth open to reply, but no words came.

He was terrified.

He let go of the doorknob.

Dean turned the knob, slowly and carefully. He knew Cas was behind the door, knew he needed to step back (which he did), and he cautiously looked inside. It was the same bedroom as before. The bed sheets were still on the bed like they looked in the morning; Cas's old clothes were on the floor, either resting near the table or the dresser; Dean could smell a faint scent of a fragrance Cas liked to wear ("It reminds me of Heaven"). He pushed the door open more.

Cas saw Dean's face. He saw the worry.

He couldn't tell you what else happened.

Dean could, though.

Cas was the only thing different in the whole room. While he looked good in the clothes he wore (he always did, but Dean wouldn't confess that), he didn't look healthy. He was far from healthy. He was pale, very pale, and his arms looked like they were shaking, and his eyes looked so spacey, and he was having a hard time keeping them open, and—"Cas?"

Cas took a step forward, but his knees buckled as soon as his foot made a connection with the hard floor. Dean caught him. "Cas!" He started falling with the extra weight against his chest—he felt dead. Dean shook his head. He rested on the floor, Cas in his arms, against his chest, breathing. He was breathing. Dean knew he was breathing. He always checked. But he was right: he was shaking. "Cas, don't you do this—Cas!"

Dean tightened his hold on his partner. Stop, he kept thinking: stop, please stop this. Sam knelt down beside the two, phone against his ear, talking to the dispatcher, but Dean didn't notice him. "Sam! Sam, call 911!" he kept saying, still repeating the other bit along with it: "Cas!"

Faint sirens were in the distance.

And the angels cried.

**x x x**

"Dean, you should sit down."

Dean didn't.

"They'll be back once all the tests are complete, so pacing about won't help."

Dean thought it was helping himself; he was lying.

"Dean."

A new voice; he wasn't listening anymore. All he heard was the tick-tock of the clock; all he felt was the shaking again.

He shook his head. "This ain't right, Sammy." They all believed it, too. It wasn't right; it was far from right. It was the most wrong that could happen in their small family they had left. Even Bobby sitting next to Sam was nodding his head. But all Sam could do was sit there and agree.

"I know."

Then, he felt the fits of anger coming back, something he hadn't felt since Cas was first admitted into the hospital in the first place. "I mean, he was fine! They even said it themselves!" Dean rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling the panicked sweat falling. He just wanted to know the results of the test. He wanted to be in that room with the MRI machine, with the x-rays, the blood tests, everything. But he was tired, so tired of it all. And things were goings so right—"And now—"

Dean sat down, defeated. Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder for support.

"We know, son."

**x x x**

Dean never left when he was allowed to stay by Cas's bedside.

When he was given the okay to see him after the tests were done ("You may go and see him now") Dean vowed to stay until he had answers. He vowed that Cas would not be left alone.

Cas sighed every time he woke to see Dean still there. "You can go to work, Dean. I am okay here," he would eventually say—it always came out staggered and stuttered, which broke Dean's spirit. Dean just held onto his hand and silently prayed whenever he was given the chance to talk to Cas.

"I'm not taking any chances, Cas. I'll be here." And he never gave up that promise.

Even when he and Cas were in a sudden argument about his condition.

_"And you were sick for how long?"_

_"It has been quite a while."_

_"Why didn't you tell any of us, Cas? We could have stopped this!"_

_"Dean—"_

_"Hell, you could be better than you were before and we could have known that you were cancer-free once and for all!"_

_"Dean—"_

_"Just—Just why didn't you tell me?"_

_"I wanted you happy."_

So on that night, Dean looked down at the pale, sickened, unhealthy Cas on the bed and listened to the slow beats of his heart. He still kept the clammy hand in his own—he needed a reminder that he was still there, that he was still alive and not a dead weight to the world. He let his forehead rest on top of their hands on the bed, and while he still could not rid of the shaking feeling that sent chills down his spine, Dean closed his eyes with Cas.

"I promise it'll be okay. Just—I promise."

**x x x**

The doctors outside heard the prayer.

They flew away until the very next day.

**x x x**

"May we have a word with you, Dean?" A group of doctors were collected at the door. Dean turned his head to watch their faces still; their seriousness broke apart the light-hearted conversation he was having with Cas, which was not much, if they were both going to tell the truth.

_Dean just wanted Cas's pudding, and while Cas was more than willing to give it away, Dean cast an odd glance to his partner. "I can't understand how you never acquired a taste for this stuff. I mean, it tastes like Heaven," which prompted Cas to lower his eyebrows in confusion._

_He opened his mouth; Dean was used to the staggering. He gave Cas all the time he needed to speak (it gave him more time to eat the small thing of pudding, though). "H—Heaven—"_

_Dean let out a small chuckle, then shook his head. The spoon's handle stuck out of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah," he managed to say, then took out the spoon. Cas watched it be twirled in the air while Dean spoke. "I bet it tastes like rainbows and sunshine all the time."_

_Cas shook his head. "I—It actu—ally tastes l—like nothing."_

_Dean just stared into the blue pools (which were turning very dull, much to his disliking). The spoon stopped twirling in his hands. Then, a small smirk landed on Cas's face, and his small cough sounded like a fit of laughter. "Really? Cracking jokes?" He watched Cas shrug, and he put the spoon back in the pudding. Dean smiled. "I can't believe you sometimes, Cas." A low hum was emitted from the man on the bed, the smile still there on his face. Dean picked up the spoon again and tasted what he thought was Heaven inside. Cas just smiled._

Dean rose from his chair. "Is everything alright?" Cas watched Dean tense; he himself felt sick to his stomach.

Some doctors—some he'd never even seen before—already made their way outside of the room. Sid side-stepped, showing Dean the door; Dean just stared at the seriousness on the doctor's face. "It'll only be a moment," and the words hung in the air, dangling over the two bodies that were sharing an intimate moment that felt like years ago. Dean turned his head.

"I'll—I'll be back, alright? Just outside that door," and Cas nodded. Dean grew very attached to Cas the moment he started getting sick again, and even though he knew it was a terrible thing to happen, it still made him feel welcomed inside. So he watched as Dean followed Sid out the door, watching as the door closed behind the man he fell from Heaven for, and watched as the doctors stood by and awaited orders. Even if he couldn't hear, he knew.

Dean took a quick glance at the sick man on the bed before turning his attention to the handful of doctors at his whim. He felt nervous, anxious, and it didn't help that the doctors were waving a folder full of what appeared to be news in front of his face. "So, what's goin' on? Is he goin' into surgery? I mean, he's not healthy enough to go home, but after that, he can be discharged," Most of the doctors in the back shifted uncomfortably, which made Dean hesitant to ask why they would do such a thing. Instead, he focused on Sid, the one with all the folders in his hands.

One of the doctors—he didn't care to ask for a name—spoke out in the back. "That is up to you to decide," he stated, and Dean felt all the confusion wash over him.

"What are you talking about? He's not healthy to go home, is he?" They just stared at him. Dean felt uneasy, but continued. "If he's healthy enough to go home, he's goin' home," quickly said Dean, the harshness in his voice grumbling toward the professional men. Sid shook his head.

"What he means is," he started, "Cas can either be here or at your home comfortably."

Dean shifted from one leg to another, his arms crossing. "Well, obviously his home, but—"

"His test results came back," said another doctor he couldn't remember. Dean straightened his posture.

"Yeah?" Dean was both eager to know the results of the tests, and dreading the news at the same time. He could play out each scenario that he drew up in his head at that exact moment still, but he watched as Sid pulled out x-rays, MRI results, blood work—the whole shebang.

Sid just stared with his eyes, straight into Dean's soul, as though he were looking for him inside. Dean looked down at the folder. "What's it say?" His voice weakened. There was a reason for their hesitation, and he could see the slight tremor in Sid's hand. A small bite pierced through a bit of skin inside Dean's mouth.

All Sid did was hold out the x-ray, and it was of Cas's head. Right on the bottom, right where it all began—right— _"It's a tumor."_ Dean turned his head away from the image, eyes shut. It hurt. It was back, and it was infecting him again. Dean heard Sid pull the image away, placing it back into the folder where it once rested. And when he opened his eyes to look at the doctors, there was a white paper on top.

Dean wanted to scream and rip the hospital apart brick by brick, but it would get them nowhere. It would lead down a road that would not save Cas. So he stared right at Sid. "You have to get it out of him," he whispered, pleading, begging for a life to be saved. "Cut him open—you said that surgery would get rid of the tumor, to help him—"

A doctor in the back cut him off. "It would."

Dean stopped. It felt like the whole world was stopping on a dime. "Then do it."

Sid looked down at the paper on his folder. "We can't."

"You can't? Or you won't?" Dean retorted back, feeling the anger rise from his feet into the rest of his body. It was better than breaking down.

But the reply was hushed, barely even mumbled. Some could say it never existed because it was so quiet, that who's to say he even said it in the first place? But it happened, and Sid whispered: "Can't." Dean hung his head and closed his eyes, hearing more come from Sid. "We would take the tumor out through surgery, but…" a flutter of paper in the air was heard in his ears.

Dean choked out: "Why?"

Sid sighed. "It's spread. His white blood cell count, it—" Dean stopped listening. _"It's spread"_ —Jesus, it was in his stomach, or in his blood, or somewhere in his body, he thought. He turned his head to the man on the bed, looking at the blue eyes staring right back. The once healthy, strong, stable, constant angel reduced to nothing but a dying human. It wasn't right—it wasn't fair. "—we suggest you spend as much time as you can with him."

Dean felt his heart wretch in every possible way he could imagine—and in ways he never thought could happen. He bit his upper lip. "How long?" He could feel the tears in his eyes, pooling on the rims and wanting for a sweet release, but as he watched Cas close his eyes to sleep, so did he. What could a fallen angel dream of? Dean wanted to know; Dean wanted to believe this was all a dream anyway.

Sid closed his folder. "It's—It's hard to say, but—"

"Just—" Dean turned to the doctor, eyes fluttering open. And Sid could see the pleas in his eyes, asking with sincerity in his heart. "Just tell me."

Sid hung his head. "He doesn't have much time left." Dean opened his mouth to let out a sigh, and his eyes cast to the ceiling. Light, he thought—not much left of it. "I would give him two months at most."

And just like that, it was over.

"Jesus Christ," he cried.

All the years he thought they had, he thought Cas had left on Earth—

"Jesus," he strained.

Gone.

Just like that, they had lost the battle.

**x x x**

"D—Dean."

"D-Don't worry, Cas. We'll—we'll get you home."

**x x x**

"Dean, I'm sorry, I—"

"Just—just don't, Sam."

"Dean, wait—"

**x x x**

"Bobby—"

"Shh, it'll—you'll get through this. You always do, son."

**x x x**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Cas opened his eyes. "Oh, you're awake," a familiar voice next to him quietly stressed. It was the nurse—Sophia. Something he did remember. He slightly moved his head to watch her write numbers and notes down on the clipboard, glancing up at the screens surrounding him, and he saw his arm full of the needles again. IV, some more medicine, more medicine—there were new bandages, holes he'd never had in his arm before. "You had some new tests done on you, some blood work mostly," she mumbled.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Castiel, but we must do some more tests. Can you lift your arm for me?" He did so, but it took much too long to lift it. It felt as though his whole body was numb and—he couldn't find the correct word, but something close to it was gone. She gave a fake smile. "Good," she wrote something down. He wished he could see her notes; she was always scribbling. She placed the pen on the board, then held out her hand. "Grip my hand, Castiel," and he let his palm rest on her fingers.

He tried.

But as hard as he could, he found himself limply hanging in the air by her fingers. She felt much too warm to the touch—he was not cold. He felt her start to pull away from his hand, so he tried as hard as he could to keep his arm in the air. It flopped onto the bed. She took the pen back in the empty hand and sighed. "It's okay," she said, "it's been a long day." He could feel the medicine in his veins, the liquid pumping from the needles in his arms, and he didn't want to close his eyes.

He could feel it start to kick in; he knew what it'd lead to. And her face practically said: "Rest now, Castiel. You have worked hard enough." And he knew where he had seen that face before. He saw it everywhere but nowhere at the same time. He opened his mouth the moment she turned her back.

Her clicking of the footsteps echoed in the silence as she moved closer and closer to the door.

The words were not coming out of his mouth.

He closed his eyes in frustration, teeth clenched. Then, finally, a hushed sound: "S—" And he gasped in surprise. It was as though he were saying his first words. The clicking of her heels stopped. He opened his eyes to see her head turned away, her back still to him. She expected a name.

He expressed difference. "S—Sister…"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

She could feel his eyes on her, the blue piercings of Heaven reaching out to touch her grace. And she turned around, her eyes staring right into the former angel's soul. It expressed agony, guilt, suffering, torment, and everything in the middle—but he was not afraid. She gave a weak smile, then walked back to his bedside. She saw the human in him, the utter flaw all angels wished not to have—or prayed never to have. It was hard, most days, she thought.

Sophia stood over him, watching him get weaker and weaker by the second. Have faith, she thought, and her hand graced his. She knew he could not grip her hand, but she gave him a comforting squeeze of her own. "Dear brother, you should not have known."

He shook his head. "Y—You…" He weakly lifted his hand and held out two fingers. She frowned.

"There is always a downfall to us, isn't there?" She placed the clipboard on the tray next to his monitor. "Shh," she ordered, her hand pushing through the hair he still had. "Just rest, Castiel. You will wake again."

He still had questions about his brothers and sisters around him, but he knew the answers.

So he closed his eyes.

**x x x**

Dean found out, about the angels.

It was only because Dean knew something was on Cas's mind.

"Cas? What's wrong?"

Cas didn't want to say, but he couldn't stop.

"T—Th—ey—they."

"They?"

A swallow, followed by more talking:

"A—Angels…" and then he was gasping for air.

All Dean could see was red.

And, oh, how he wanted to make them cry for mercy on their souls.

"You can save him! Heal him!"

Sid stood with his back against the wall, the balled fists in his white coat.

"We are under orders—"

"Bullshit."

The grip tightened. The other doctors— _angels_ —around stood in silence.

"You soulless sons of bitches."

Dean pushed away from the doctor— _angel_ —in disgust. Sid took a step forward. "Dean Winchester, you must understand—"

"No, you need to understand what you're doing is wrong. He's dying in there! And you care more about a guy that hasn't shown His face when we all needed him!"

"Everything must pass."

"Screw you."

**x x x**

The Impala's passenger door closed. Sam thanked the doctors, for everything, for Dean, who was staring at the sick— _dying_ —man inside the car. His eyes were already closed. "If you need anything—" Dean swiftly turned around.

"Just leave us alone."

**x x x**

Cas was sleeping in their bed, and Dean found an ample opportunity to stand by the lake while he did sleep. The sparkling, cool waters rippled against the gentle breeze from the north; the sun was just resting against the lake; warm colors spread across the sky now, with the faint stars glittering above. It was beautiful, and all Dean could think of was how Cas would say what a fine creation God had made. God had nothing to do with it, Dean thought. God was cruel and unusual and a cold-hearted son of a—

He heard footsteps on the dock come to a halt next to him. "Dean," his younger brother whispered. Dean let his head fall back to the waters, back to where Cas remarked on how lovely and alive the place had been from the start.

Dean felt the pain in his heart again. "Sam, I—I don't know," a hand rested on his shoulder. His voice was breaking. How much time would it take to heal after—after—Dean shook his head. "I—I want to know what I did wrong."

Sam turned his head. "What do you mean? You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault that Cas got stuck with—"

Dean cut him off. "Then why does everything good in my life—why are we stuck to suffer so much, Sammy?" The breeze picked up. "Why does he still believe in God when He's done nothing for us this whole time but make us suffer?"

Sam never had an answer—he never expected such a question. A strained, long silence fell between the two brothers, and all they could both do was watch the sun start to disappear from their world, the one constant light shining. The lake still shimmered and the stars still glowed, but it wasn't all the time, of course. Sam looked at his brother, watching him break in front of his very eyes, and he could do nothing. As much as he tried, Sam knew Dean, and he knew the front would not withstand for very much longer. "What am I gonna do, Sam?" The younger brother sighed. It was heavy, taking its toll on both their lives.

Sam shrugged. "With whatever time he's got left, you make the most of it." Dean closed his eyes. "You let him live his life."

Dean had to bite his lip to distract from his heart aching at the news. _"He doesn't have much time left."_ He brought his hands to his face and let himself hide from the darkening sunlight. The universe did not need to see his fall. "We don't deserve this, Sam."

The strong hand on his shoulder squeezed.

_"I know."_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They used to have a routine. But it was nearing the end--screw routine, it was time to make the most out of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death. And lots of angst. You've been warned.

**x**

_Can you hear Heaven cry?  
Tears of an Angel._

**x**

Cas coughed; he could taste the copper in his mouth. He licked his lips as fast as he could to hide it, but Dean wiped his mouth from the speck of blood that escaped.

It had begun.

**x x x**

They used to have a routine. Dean used to have a reason to get up in the morning, had some hope still left in his hopeless ridden world. He'd still get up at 5 A.M. once his alarm went off, and he'd do his best to turn it off as quick as possible. But instead of checking the temperature of his angel, he'd merely turned his head to see the angel sleeping on their bed, sick, dying, dreaming of Heaven once more. How many moments would he have with someone sleeping by his side? How many more times would he be able to get up in the morning and see someone close to him still there?

He never knew how long he'd be lying there, just staring at the sleeping form, but Sam would always come into his room to get him up for work at the garage, despite Bobby telling him to stay home. "Boy, you need to be with him every step of the way." Dean denied there was anything wrong with working. He wouldn't be able to tell you what he thought when staring at Cas and the machines still hooked up to him, plastered against his side, but he relished in the image he saw, no matter if it was unhealthy or not. At least someone was there. At least—

Dean would stand under the shower, unable to move for a very long time. Again, he couldn't be able to tell you how long he'd be in there. Time was important, but Dean found the hope draining away. After all their years of hard work, of fighting, of hunting, of saving lives, he thought he could finally have their happy ending—alas, the Winchester luck was fresh out. He would close his eyes under the hot water and felt the droplets burn his back, imagining his old memories, when life was not always so bad. At least it was tolerable.

Breakfast was a blur, especially when he did not want to listen to Sam worry about his own brother. "Dean, you need to eat something," and Dean would say that a piece of toast was enough. "He's going to worry you're getting sick. You really should let his last memories be good ones."

"I'm doing my best, Sam," he said. More words would be said—he couldn't tell you what, because he'd always be scared of Cas coming down the hallway to ask what was wrong—and anger would rise from the pit of his stomach. Sam had no idea how he felt, what he was going through. Sure, he was his brother, and would always be his brother. But this was Cas.

Dean always remembered the door slamming when he left for work.

Hours would drain by at the garage. He noticed the stares the moment he entered the shop. And they would not leave until he left for the day, either by him leaving on his own accord, or at the end of a workday. Bobby would be there to keep everyone away during the time (Dean didn't mind the condolences, but he would get angry when they mentioned him as if he were already dead; "He's not dead," he would say), and at the same time keep him in check. Dean would keep his mask on, keep his emotions behind the veil—all he wanted to do was work on cars. It kept his mind off of everything, and he could fix them. He could fix the broken.

One thing did not change in his routine: his time with Cas, especially after work. He'd drive down that dirt road to their house, see the smoke billowing from the chimney (he always wondered what Sam could be cooking for them, which it usually ended up being burgers or steak), and see a pale, skinny form on their swing. Dean noticed the cancer killing him; he couldn't deny that. He could see how Cas was getting thinner and thinner every day—not by much, but Dean remembered him at least with some meat on his bones—and could see the dark circles forming under his eyes. But no matter what, those blue eyes still sparkled with joy when Dean stepped foot on their home.

And Cas might have struggled with the greeting, but Dean always let him say it without interruption. "…W—Welcome home, D—Dean." And he'd smile. He couldn't be able to tell you what else went on throughout the night, when Cas went to bed, or what supper was like most night, or how him and Sam would somehow meet in the middle about his feelings and get something out, at least acknowledging what was happening. But, Dean could tell you how rich the wind usually felt when swinging with Cas on their porch, either watching the setting sun, the rain fall, or the sparkling stars above. And his response was always the same:

"It's good to be home."

**x x x**

Cas had a new routine, just like the rest of them. He remembered his old routine—he could hardly forget how many pills he had to take and how much work it took to get healthy (only to be stripped from him like his wings). His new routine was simple:

Sleep, sleep, wake up, pain pills, lunch, sleep, wake up, Sam, pain pills, Dean, sleep.

Cas hated the pain pills, but at the same time, he dreaded waking up in constant pain. He hurt all over—in his stomach, his sides, his bones, his head—and he wanted it to stop. He wanted some form of a pill that would take it all away; he sometimes wished he still had some Grace left in order to get himself better. The bed was comfortable enough to get his mind off the pain some days, and sleep was of the essence when the pain started to subside, so he could not really complain about much.

He wished he could go out to his garden to work on the vegetables, or out to trim the trees, or even take a walk around the lake, though. Lying in the same room for hours during the day became very dull and boring, but it was not like he could go out running whenever he wanted to. He was grateful that he could make it to the bathroom still, but even then it was a hassle. He wished to do many things, but his time with Sam was most of the exercise he had throughout the entire day.

Speaking of Sam, Cas recalled his routine. After having months of freedom in order to go out to the nearest town, Cas knew how trapped the younger Winchester was. He couldn't really leave the house anymore, in fear that Cas would croak at any given time (and Dean would never forgive his brother if that ever happened; Cas could see it happening when he dreamed).

When Sam came into the room, many things happened. Sometimes, Sam would come in and sit with the angel on the bed, reading a book. That usually meant Cas could sleep without being bothered by much. Other times, which was most of the time, Sam would talk to him about anything. It was nice to have interaction with others. He was good company, Sam, and they usually discussed what was going on in the news, or what Bobby was up to (mostly Sam talked; Cas liked to listen). Other days, when Sam could actually get information on Dean's health and well-being, Cas would listen to that: "He's coping," Sam would say. It meant Dean was not okay, but he would not let the others know.

Cas never slept during that time. He was thankful that someone would still talk to him about whatever they felt, especially the young Winchester. Being trapped in a house with a dying man was not Cas's ideal situation for the brother. Sam didn't seem to mind, and Cas knew he was just spending time with the angel before he died, but it was the thought that counted. And he couldn't necessarily complain.

Sam was still the one to help him out onto the porch. "D—Dean w—would…would li—ke this st—still." And Sam would tell you that he felt guilty in his heart when the fallen angel would say something like that. He was supposed to be trying to fight cancer, even if he had been told that the fight was over. He was supposed to worry about himself, not about how Dean would feel. But Cas would loop his arm inside of Sam's and take small steps toward the outside world, and Sam did not want to stop him.

It was a long walk most of the time. It was only maybe 40 feet out the door, but it took a lot out of the man. He would always feel so exhausted after the journey, and it was a sweet relief to sit down on the wooden bench. While the bags next to him were always tangled up in him and still needed by his side, he felt at peace on the porch. Sam would say: "I'm gonna start getting supper ready. Just—Just call if you need anything. I'll just be inside." And Cas would nod. He never called; he was fine.

Time would blow by for the boys there. Cas would just think it'd be minutes, but sometimes it would be an hour until Dean would come home, that black Impala driving down the dirt road back home. Cas didn't mind; he liked watching the slight change of colors happen around their home, or watching the ducks near the lake swim about on the rippling waves, or listen to the rain fall whenever it came through the town. It was—refreshing, he thought. It was better than their bedroom.

And then Dean would be home. Dean would look so worn out and so distraught, and Cas knew how much the sickness was affecting him along with his own self. But Cas was always there to see the smile on his face when he would welcome him home. The rough, familiar voice would come back into his ears, and the righteous man would be sitting next to him, either his arm wrapped around the sick man, or his hand inside the others. "It's good to be home."

And for the first time of the day, Cas would agree that it was always good to be home. Most of the time, they just sat there, with Cas listening to Dean's story at the shop that day, or Dean asking how Cas felt, which meant long pauses. When Cas would say how he was, Dean, on rare occasions, would let himself break in front of Cas and kiss the top of his head with his eyes closed, but Cas could only count a handful of times that happened. Other days they sat in silence, enjoying the others company. They didn't mind. Time was theirs.

**x x x**

"Dean, where are you going?"

"Out."

"You have to go to work!"

"Screw that, Sam, he needs to get better—"

"Dean—"

"No, Sam, he's not dying. He's—I'll be back."

"Dean!"

**x x x**

Dean hated the doctor's office. Screw that, he hated doctors. He looked around the lobby—little kids held tissues up to their noses, parents rubbed their backs for comfort, older adults stared down at the floor or their shaking hands as they patiently waited for a nurse to call their name. It was always the same in every doctor's visit, too, with sick people sitting in uncomfortable chairs while the nurses behind the desk either talked about their day, gossiped about some stupid trifle in the workplace, or talked about patients with one another. His leg bounced up and down as he stared at the clock ahead of him; 9:07 A.M.

He purposely made an appointment with the doctor. No, he was not sick. No, he was not there to get medicine for Sam. He was there for Cas. And he would be paying the doctor a long-awaited visit. It had been nearly a week since Cas was told he was dying—since Dean felt yet another friend, close one, loved one being taken from him—and Dean couldn't just sit around the house any longer. Cas would still be asleep by the time he'd get home around 11, and he would make sure he would be home when Cas would wake up. It was nearly the weekend anyway; it wouldn't hurt to surprise the guy, Dean thought.

The door opened. "Dean Winchester?" The young nurse—she looked young, maybe early 20s—glanced up from the manila folder and scanned the room. Finally, he thought, as he rose from his chair. She gave a small smile; he held open the door for her. "Right this way," she said, turning her back. He knew the routine.

"Please get on the scale."

"Tell me, have I gained anything?"

"Back against the wall."

"I haven't heard that in a while." (Which, by the way, was true: it had been nearly a month since he heard that whispered in his ear when Sam was out. Well, either it was said, or it was done. It was mostly done.)

"Let's take your temperature."

"I hope that's for the mouth."

"Blood pressure seems fine."

"No troubles in that department."

And then he'd get the question: "Alright, so what's the problem today?" Dean could see the nurse skeptical about his visit there, wondering why on Earth the guy was there in the first place, and he pointed down to his leg.

"Yeah, I got some kind of infection growing, and I wanted to know what Dr. Barman thought about it," which wasn't a total lie. Dean had cut his leg pretty bad at the garage in the beginning of the week (Cas frowned when he saw the bloody jeans, and Dean assured him he was fine), but it was healing just fine. Luckily, the nurse did not extensively look into the wound too much (who needed bandages when you had alcohol and towels at your disposal?) and wrote something in her file.

"How'd you manage to do that?" she asked. He shrugged.

"I work in a garage, so I must have cut it on the bumper of an old car," again, true. It was an old Firebird that came into the garage, and one of the bumper's corners was jutted out. Long story short, it tore open Dean's leg enough to make it start bleeding. The good news was he was let home early; the bad news was his jeans were ruined.

She frowned. "Have you had a tetanus shot?"

"Yes."

She closed the file. "Well, then I'll see that he comes in here as soon as possible," and she rose from her blue chair, looking slightly down at Dean sitting on the bed in the room. "You just sit tight." He gave her a small salute, understanding it perfectly, and he heard the door close. He rolled down his pant leg and knew what was going to happen in the visit. He knew how Barman would be surprised that Dean was there, how friendly he would try to be—but Dean was not a fool, not anymore. Cas was not an idiot.

"Barman. H—he…is an an—angel." Dean didn't have to put two and two together; he knew he had to pay a small visit to his favorite doctor since childhood the next morning, despite Sam whining about the possibilities that could come out of it. Dean didn't care. He needed to see the doctor.

Suddenly, Dean could hear the doorknob turn behind him. He just hoped—hope, what a joke—Barman was one of those angels that had mercy if things got out of hand. Dean didn't mind dying again. He knew the dance with death enough. Dean turned around and saw the smiling face of his old friend. "Dean! Long time no see," said the jolly doctor, who closed the door with his back with the file in his hands. Dean did his best to sell a smile.

"Hey, Dr. Barman," he said to him. The doctor walked over to the blue chair, sitting down with a big sigh of relief coming out of him. Dean stared at him with a fire burning in his heart, knowing full well what the man in front of him did, and he wished he could have an angel sword handy ("Dean, those have…disappeared…for m—months now…" Cas told him; "…Why d—do you ask?" And Dean told him no reason whatsoever).

"Ah," the doctor tried to relax in the chair. "Feels good to just sit down without having to deal with some bratty kid, ya know?" Dean shrugged.

"I hear ya," he said, trying to make the conversation as light-hearted as possible. Unfortunately, it didn't help him.

The doctor spun his chair to face Dean, leaning back. "So how have you been? How was that friend of yours—what was his name…" the doctor trailed off.

Dean blinked; he really wished he had an angel sword. "Cas," he said, "his name is Cas."

"Right! Castiel, the angel of Thursday—he must have been named after the famous angel, of course," the doctor remarked, a smile still on his face. Dean shrugged again; he could see the lie in his eyes. Dr. Barman placed his hands in his lap. "Did the headaches go away?" How the urge to kill the man—angel—right then and there was almost becoming overwhelming for Dean, but all he did was lean forward, a small chuckle released into the air.

He couldn't believe it. He stared right at the doctor across from him, with the intent of getting the truth out. "You tell me." The doctor stilled, staring at the man on the bed with pale brown eyes and a confused look on his face.

"I'm sorry?" Dean didn't budge.

"Don't pull that, not on me. I know about the angels, so drop the act." Dr. Barman tensed up immediately. And the first thing out of his mouth?

"Who told you?"

Dean thought he could taste the bile in his mouth. For all the years he knew the man, for all the doctor visits he had with him—and all he could worry about was who told him about his angelic being. Dr. Barman sighed. "It doesn't matter, really," and Dean shook his head.

"You son of a bitch," he pushed off the bed, standing over the doctor—angel, he'd never get used to that—with his fists balled. "You knew, didn't you?" Dr. Barman stayed in his chair, staring up at Dean with no confusion or anger in those brown eyes.

"Yes," replied the doctor, a soft voice falling on the muted ears around. Dean gave another chuckle, this one of complete malice and disgust at the entire thing, and he turned away from the man in the chair. At that time, the doctor rose. "There was nothing I could do, Dean, I—" Dean spun around with anger in his eyes, looking for a way to kill the bastard there and then.

"Bullshit," he replied back. Dr. Barman stood his ground, staring at the man wanting to unleash fury and wrath onto his body. They both knew what stage this was—but Dean would deny it. A calm breeze of air circulated in the room, and only Dr. Barman moved his eyes to see what caused it.

"He is right though, Dean," a deep voice entering the air. Dean's head turned to see Sid standing at the doorway, blocking the only means out.

"Go to Hell," Dean replied. "Cas is dying, by your hands," he turned to look at the other doctor, making sure they understood what they had both done. "He's busted his ass for this planet for years, and you're going to kill him? For what?"

Sid leaned against the door. "God commands for him to come Home." Home, Dean thought. No, home was on Earth. Home was not in Heaven, home—home meant being with family. Cas did not like his family in Heaven; he liked his family on Earth. "We do what is told."

Dean gave a grunt. "No, you do what is wrong. This is wrong." Dean saw the fire in Sid's eyes, how offended the angel was getting for talking about God in such a manner. He knew that look—he saw it from Raphael, he saw it from Cas. "Fix him. I don't care if I have to give up my life, you give him life. Don't take it from him."

"And what?" Dean turned back to Dr. Barman. "Send a message to other angels that it is okay to rebel? That they, too, can turn their back on God without any punishment?" Dr. Barman took a step toward Dean, who was not intimidated (although perhaps a bit frightened at what the angel could do to him if he really wanted to). "Castiel has done enough work, whether it was screwing up or not." Dean wanted to interrupt, to say how much of a lie that was, but Dr. Barman leaned forward and whispered: "It is time for him to be rewarded with his own Paradise."

Dean snarled. "And what kind of Paradise is that?"

Sid sighed. "He will be at peace in Heaven. That is a good enough reward." Dr. Barman leaned away from him, the threat of God still in his whole body. Dean lowered his gaze to the doctor's shoulder, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch faith, grab it by the shoulders, and get them to fix him.

But Dean couldn't do anything to save Cas. The will of God was too much for the righteous man. "So I'm just supposed to watch him die? Is that it?"

Both doctors bowed their heads, with Dr. Barman the least sympathetic of the two. Sid was the one to speak on their behalf—perhaps for all the angels. "We are sorry it has come to this." Dean closed his eyes for a brief moment. He didn't think seeing his angel die before him was going to be on his list of things to do in life, that was for sure. He reached down on the bed for the jacket bundled up near the edge and turned to Sid.

"Yeah," he started walking toward the door, which Sid moved out of the way. Dean made eye contact with the doctor, scanning him up and down. "I'm sorry I ever had faith in you in the first place." The door flew open by some grace of God, and it slammed with the same force.

**x x x**

"S—Sam?" Sam put down the book he was reading—the title nor the story didn't matter—and looked toward the bed next to him. Cas's head was turned to him, his blue eyes so bright compared to the pale skin he had. He moved his chair closer to the edge and leaned toward the angel, making sure he had his full attention.

"Hey, Cas. How're you feeling?" It was a stupid question—smooth Sam, he thought. Sam let his hand brush against Cas's forehead, feeling for his temperature. He was burning up. Sam didn't know what to do, so he just stared at the angel moving his mouth, trying to talk. His jaw would bounce up and down, and his tongue would try to get his throat to make some kind of sound. He learned how to be patient with Cas, just like Dean had ("If he opens his mouth, just let him take his time. He gets annoyed if you don't.").

Cas felt Sam's hand move away from his head. "I—I am…okay." And he was. He woke up because he felt like it, which was a bit odd, considering how he usually woke to having pain all along his body. He was sure the pain would strike at some point in the near future (it did, almost about five minutes after he thought about what kind of miracle he had for waking up with no pain whatsoever).

Sam nodded, a small smile gracing his face. Cas felt better knowing that he was happy for being just okay. "That's good, very good. Is—Is the pain bothering you? Do you want some of your medication now?" They had to administer a set amount of drugs to Cas whenever he felt like he was going to explode from the pain. Most of the time, it didn't work as much as they wanted, and he'd be stuck groaning and moaning from the pains in his stomach and chest for the majority of the day.

Cas shook his head from side to side—he really was okay for the time being, and he saw no reason to have the drugs in his system. Besides, they made him really drowsy. "Did you want me to open up a window? You're burning up pretty bad, and the Fall breeze is pretty nice right now," Sam said, looking outside at the lake. Yes, Cas thought. It was Fall. He wished he could see the trees outside change colors, but he was still pretty weak to do that alone. He'd wait for when he could sit outside to wait for Dean, just so they could both admire the colors changing around them.

"I— would…like that," Cas rasped to the man next to him. Sam immediately rose from the pine chair, most likely from the dining set in the kitchen, since the other chair in the room was much larger, and reached toward the window next to them. As soon as it opened, Cas could feel the cool air make its way into the room, trickling down his arms and into the sheets he laid under. He brought them closer to his neck, but it felt nice. Sam looked back to him, making sure it was okay at the amount it was open. Cas nodded in approval; Sam sat back down.

They sat in a moment of silence, unable to think of things to say. Cas mostly had his eyes closed, relishing in the fact that he could really relax in his bed. Perhaps he could say he was floating on a cloud, although clouds were fluffier and more of an idea when you wanted to rest on them anyhow. He heard a small noise next to him, so he opened his eyes to see Sam staring at him, trying to form some kind of thought on his mind. Cas tried to read him, but he wasn't like Dean. He was more mysterious.

Sam spoke anyway. "I know you wonder and worry about Dean," he whispered. He hardly heard him, but Cas knew. He really did worry about him. He barely said a word about Cas dying (and when he did, he nearly flipped the table over at dinner: "Quit talking about it like he's already dead! Jesus, he's right here!"), but it was as though it was eating him alive. "He's—He's stubborn, you know that. He's dealing with it on his own, which means drinking and not talking about it because that's too much of a chick flick." That remark earned Sam a small smile from Cas. "All I'm saying is—when he's ready to talk about it, he'll talk. He'll come around, Cas, I promise."

Sam's eyes softened at the last comment about Dean opening up, and Cas wondered if the same thought was going through his mind: when Dean will be ready, it might be on his death bed. But, Cas nodded, feeling the pillow underneath him move with his head. "I—I—know." He noticed how relaxed the younger sibling became at the sound of those words hitting his ears, and Sam just blinked and nodded, looking down at the bed on which he lied. Cas, knowing the conversation should have ended there for the two of them, pressed even further, perhaps stepping their boundaries a bit. "Sam—" he called out.

Sam lifted his head, looking into the blue eyes that reached out for him. He didn't say a word; he let the angel form his thoughts into a coherent enough sentence. "I—have died—before. But—as a—a human, what is it—it like?" As the sentence ended, Cas began to cough for air, dying to breathe in and breathe out, and Sam's expression fell. He felt sorry for the guy, he really did—after all he had done for humans and God, he was being broken down into something like that. It was a shame.

"You sure you don't want a notepad?" They discussed something like that before, him and Cas. Cas was having difficulty talking in general to whomever he was talking to, and Sam offered him a notebook so he could write it instead of speak. Cas refused it—as stubborn as Dean, Sam thought at the time. Cas gave him a glare through the small coughing fit; there was his answer, always the same. Sam gave a pitied chuckle, shaking his head. "I'll never understand you," he whispered. Cas gasped for air, closing his eyes. Sam figured the angel would bother him about his experience with death, which he didn't remember all that much, but he remembered the moments before passing over.

He waited until the angel opened his eyes again before giving him his full attention once more. "Well, you know I've been mortally wounded before, stabbed and shot," and Cas nodded, allowing him to continue, "so my experiences will probably differ from yours. But, for me, it—it was pretty painful." Cas's hard stare did not falter. He was not afraid. Sam's stare, however, slipped up, and he let his eyes cast to the bed. "Those brief moments when you're still alive, you feel everything at once, whether it's painful or numbness. For me, when I was stabbed and shot, I felt pain everywhere. It shot throughout my whole entire body. You just want it to be over, because there's some part of you that doesn't want to feel that anymore." Cas closed his eyes; Sam looked at his hands.

"And then there's the person you're with, you know? For me, it was Dean. I'm sure it'll be the same for you. I'm sure he'll be on the bed with you, despite him being strong-willed and macho like the man he is." Sam didn't look up to see the smile on Cas's face. "But you hear whoever's with you. You hear everything they say, and you want to say so much, but you want it all to end at the same time, you know? You're stuck between life and death at that moment, and you feel them holding you, telling you you'll be okay, but you know you won't. And that last breath—for me, it felt like an eternity, but it must have been only seconds. You hang on for that last moment on Earth, and you think you'll be shot right into the afterlife, but you get the pleasure of hearing someone's last words to you, feeling them hold you tight. And then the pain goes away, and you fade away. I won't be much help about the afterlife, seeing as how I don't remember, but…" Sam lets his eyes drift up and sees Cas lying there, a peaceful expression on his face—steady breathing, too.

He was fast asleep. Sam let his mouth shut, his eyes burn, and he grunted a small content noise. "But, I'm sure you'll get your wings back, Cas. You deserve them." There was no reply, just the cool breeze tickling at Sam's neck.

**x x x**

He didn't know how long it would be before nothing would actually be in his stomach anymore, but Cas kept vomiting. Dean sat on the bathtub's rim rubbing his back as more and more chunks of whatever it was kept spewing from his throat. Sam was at the sink soaking washcloths in hot water, in case it made him feel any better (which it did, and he was very thankful). Cas stared down at the murky water under him, with clear gunk spiraling around the rim of the bowl, and brown (plus red) chunks riding the waves as he breathed.

He felt a rush of heat hit the back of his neck while he leaned against the bowl for support, breathing in the bile that had left his body. "Thanks, Sammy," said Dean behind him. He felt those rough hands move the washcloth around, perhaps to get more of the washcloth on his body in the first place, and Cas closed his eyes. It felt wonderful—well, not the vomiting, nor did his stomach and body feel any better, but it was a bit relaxing.

"Yeah, no problem," Sam whispered, backing away from the angel on the floor. Cas opened his eyes once more, his stomach churning. "I'm, uh, I'll be getting supper ready, alright?" Dean must have nodded, because Cas could see the youngest brother make eye contact with his older sibling before turning away. Breathe in, breathe out—he'd get through that. Cas slightly turned his head to the man still in the bathroom, still sitting near him on the rim of the bathtub, still staring at the junk in the bowl.

He looked up at what he could to see Dean's face, and all he could see was the worry in his eyes, the smile on his face, and the sadness in his soul. "How's your stomach feelin'?" Dean asked, as Cas gave a weak shrug.

He opened his mouth, feeling as though more would come out, but pushed past the nausea to talk to him. "It…" Breathe in, breathe out. Dean leaned forward more to rub his back again—how it felt wonderful, though. It gave him comfort. "It…hurts…" he gasped for air, finding it more and more difficult to talk as the days progressed. He didn't know what day he was on toward his death—he figured having a calendar marking down to his own death was a bit morbid. Dean would probably not like the idea in their bedroom, either.

Cas turned back to the water underneath him and heard Dean speak. "I know," he whispered. Yes, he knew, but didn't understand what kind of pain Cas was in most of the time. His whole body ached when it moved; his arms could barely hold anything on their own some days; his legs felt on fire and jelly at the same time; his stomach always hurt; his back strained; his neck was always stiff; his head pounded at all hours of the day. Cas closed his eyes.

"I—I—" Cas clutched the top of the seat, holding onto something to ease through the pain. Dean kept rubbing his back, his fingers slightly grabbing at his shirt whenever it bunched. "Dean, I—" and Cas wanted to say so much, wanted to tell Dean what was really on his mind, what they were all avoiding to practically talk about, but his stomach said otherwise, and he was back to adding more to the pot. He couldn't see, but Dean closed his eyes at the pained sounds he was giving (his throat was on fire now) and the coughing fit soon after. The grip on his shirt tightened, but he still rubbed a certain spot on his back.

"Shh," Dean shushed, trying to get him through it. "It's—just relax, Cas." Cas knew what he was going to say: it's okay. And it wasn't okay, it would not be okay. He was dying. That was the truth. But Cas couldn't say that.

Instead, he just let his stomach talk for him.

**x x x**

Bobby thought it was a terrible idea, but he still kept going into the garage to work. He couldn't help it; if he was at home, it would just be one downer after another. He couldn't live with the pain and suffering inside his own home, and he couldn't imagine Sam doing any better (along with Cas, but there was nothing). He was hopeless; he was out of options. So Dean took it upon himself to go into the garage whenever his mind clouded with thoughts that brought the world down.

The guys at the garage also thought it was a bad idea. "Hey, what are you doing here?" It was another day, just another day. That's all it was. Dean had stayed up almost the entire night with Cas, hearing him groan next to him while grabbing at the bed sheets, the pain getting worse and worse. He'd never seen Cas cry, and to see the tears in his eyes when the pain medication still wasn't working broke both of them ("I'm here, Cas. I'm right here.").

Dean shrugged. "Someone's gotta take care of my Baby," he said. He was sure she needed some work done, anything he could find, really. Bobby kept him away from customers that came and went to get something done on their own cars ("You need to worry about other things, boy"), so he decided to just work on his own little pride and joy. The guys looked really skeptical at his answer, but he carried the tools in his hands to the Impala outside and looked at her shine in the sun. She was beautiful, he had to admit.

He set the tools down on the ground, rag in hand, and started wiping the dirt off the wheels. She needed to be okay, she needed to look okay, you know? She couldn't have dirt contaminating her—it had to get cleaned. When he stared at his reflection in the rims, he just smiled to himself, looking at the slight work he had done. It was clean. It had nothing wrong with it, of course. She was in good health. He rose from the ground and looked at the body of the car. Not a dent on her, just a few scratches, but nothing a good wipe down couldn't fix. She'd be brand new. She wasn't going to rust on him now, not yet. So he took the rag and inspected the outside, looking for any scratches he would see, and when he saw one, he'd start wiping it away. Just like that, the infection was gone. Just like that, he could see her shine again.

He made his way to the front of the car. Oh, the hood. She was a beauty under the hood. So complicated, but once you got to know her, she was as simple as can be, and she was easy to take care of, for obvious reasons. You just needed to know how to treat her. He popped it open and lifted the hood over his head. There she was, the heart of the matter, and boy, she was looking great. He looked around the whole—something caught his eye. He leaned forward and noticed something stuck to his engine. Nothing a good scrub couldn't fix, he thought. Nothing was going to contaminate his Baby, not on his watch.

So he brought the rag down on the engine and pushed as hard as he could against the gunk. He could feel it stick to him when pressing down, so when he brought it away from the engine, he could see the glob retreat from it. He had no idea what it necessarily was—probably some kind of residue—but he closed the rag up and looked back down at the engine. There was still some left; he went at it again. Scrub, scrub, scrub—no matter how much he tried to get it off, there was no use. It was stuck there, wiping all along the engine, spreading. It was spreading like wildfire. It couldn't be stopped. But he kept scrubbing—there had to be a way to get it off, there had to be some way, there was no way he would let it spread like that, just get off, get off, come on…

He held onto the front of the car as he continued to scrub away at the goo on his Baby. He wasn't going to give up on her, not yet, just come on, you can get off of her, you're still my pride and joy—his eyes started to water. And when he started to slow down, slowly but surely coming to a halt with the rag coming to a rest, he closed his eyes. No, it wasn't fair. He worked so hard, just give him one thing, that's all he asked for. When he opened his eyes, the gunk was still there, never going away. It was stuck there. He closed his eyes again; there was a time when it wasn't there at all.

He took in a deep breath. He didn't have time for that. So when his eyes opened again, he was determined. He didn't go after the gunk again, but he leaned away from his Baby. No matter what was wrong with her, she was still beautiful. She was still his at the end of the day, and he didn't hate her in any way.

Dean felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, snapping him out of his thoughts. He threw the rag down on the bits inside the hood and dug into his pocket, pulling out the small thing. Two messages—when did the first one come in? No matter, he opened them anyway. The first one: _"It is a nice day out. I hope you are home soon."_ Dean clicked the arrow up to bring up the second message: _"Dean he's not looking too good today. You should get home."_

He pushed the end button to close the messages, but he could still see the words staring back at him. He slammed the hood shut. His pride and joy could wait another day to be pristine and whole again.

**x x x**

He was having trouble walking by the second week. Dean contemplated of getting him a wheelchair; "Not yet," Cas whispered to him one night.

It would not be needed until the week after.

**x x x**

The water rushed into the sink. The white dishes crusted in certain spots floated to the top of the pool, the murky water hiding under the soapy suds. Dean reached into the water and felt the burn of the hot water cling to his skin; Sam held the semi-dry towel in his hands, waiting for some kind of dish to come his way. The younger sibling noticed how greased up Dean looked from the day at the garage, the tired bags under his eyes, the worry in his eyes—and yet he still tried so hard to look at least light-hearted, no matter how serious the situation was. Sam remembered the conversation with Cas—it was only natural to let out what was on his mind.

He looked back down to the sink. "Hey, Dean," Dean looked over at his brother as the sponge hit the dish.

"Yeah, Sam?" He handed the dish over to him, the water dripping into the other side of the sink as the soap slid off the ceramic surface. Sam brought the towel to the dish, watching the fabric soak up the water as he rubbed against the smooth dish.

"I was thinking, you know, maybe—maybe you should talk to Cas," he said to his older brother. He felt the other tense up, going back into the shell he knew and grew to be comfortable with for years.

"About what?" Sam moved the dish to the counter.

"I think we both know—"

"Sam," Dean interrupted him. There was an annoyance in his voice. Sam saw him grab another dish in the corner of his eye, but all he could do was throw the towel down.

Sam tried to catch Dean's eyes as he leaned against the sink with his hip, but Dean just kept his eyes down. "Dean you can't just ignore this. He needs you, you know. He worries about you all the time, and he shouldn't. You know it, I know it, hell, Bobby probably knows it." Nothing. Sam huffed. "You have to—"

"Have to what?" Green eyes tore away from the soap-soaked dish and stared up at his brother; Sam could see the swirl of emotions running in them. Anger, worry, fear—they were all there. "Tell him how I feel about him dying? Tell him that it's going to be okay when we both know that's just a bunch of crap?"

Sam was at a loss. How was he supposed to approach this with him? "No, everyone said to act like he's going to live, to give him life, well, so be it. I'm not going to talk to him about death." He went back to the dish in his hand.

Sam frowned. "I already have." Dean stopped scrubbing. "He asked me what death was like, Dean. He's—I don't know, maybe he's just as scared as you are."

He started scrubbing again. Sam watched as the wall was being built again; no, he couldn't just hide his feelings, no. "Just talk to him?"

"Drop it, Sam," Dean quickly replied, pushing the dish in his direction. The plate was left in the air for a while, Sam just staring at his older brother. They couldn't be brought to look at each other. So Sam yielded and grabbed the plate from him.

"It won't go away, you know," he whispered as he turned back to the sink once more. Sam grabbed the towel underneath him, reaching up to scrub whatever was left on the dish. Suddenly, he felt a splash of water against his skin; Dean had thrown the sponge into the water. He wanted to say something, but as he looked over, he saw Dean walking toward the door outside.

"I know that," Dean hoarsely replied, pushing whatever was in his way somewhere else. "Just leave me alone," he snapped the door open and shut, stepping outside into the dark night. Sam just stared at the door for quite some time before something else caught his eye. And when he looked, he was met with another tired face, blue eyes staring at the back of another, a hand holding both the wall and the IV bag wheeled next to him.

He sighed.

**x x x**

_It was dark, too dark to see. He tried looking around, but no luck. He wished he could see—then a blast of white light left the shadows far behind. It was just one long path toward that bright light. He cautioned its use there, but it felt familiar. It felt warm. It felt whole. He wondered of its existence, perhaps his entire life, but he could trust this light. There was something about it—he started to walk toward it. The closer he got, the more the light shined the shadows away, the more he wanted to hold the light as close as he could to his body. He wanted to reach out—_

_Cas? The righteous man; he turned around and felt the light dimming in the distance against his back. He felt torn, but another familiar tugging brought him back into the dark; the light disappeared._

He opened his eyes; someone was rubbing his back to wake him up. Cas blinked a few times, trying to get used to the dark around the bedroom, then he turned to the person on the bed with him.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, hey. You were having trouble breathing over there."

He nodded. Dean moved closer to him. "Bad dream?" Arms wrapped themselves around him; closure. There was a brief moment where their foreheads touched. Cas shrugged.

"A…light…" Dean's eyes slightly widened, and Cas felt Dean's grip tighten. He said something wrong.

"Cas, don't," Cas watched as his partner closed his eyes, a pained expression across his face. There was so much that could have been said from just that one look; he looked so vulnerable. Cas felt Dean's hands raise to his shoulders, his arms still wrapped around him. "Don't go toward that light."

Cas blinked. "W—Why…?"

Dean's eyes shot open; anger. "Just don't, okay?"

As much as he wanted to go toward that light, he could only nod. It was not the right time to talk about it anyway; they fell asleep soon after.

**x x x**

It was a Saturday, Dean remembered. He was off of work for the day (and possibly for the rest of the week, as Bobby did not want to see him around the garage for a long time), and he was sitting on the couch. There was nothing on TV. So he clicked it off with the remote and looked around. It was so quiet, so peaceful, too. It worried him, so he rose from the couch to go to the bedroom to check on Cas. He didn't need to, seeing as how Sam was there, but he needed to make sure. The walk down the hallway strained for a long time, each step feeling heavy as he made it closer and closer to the two men in his life. What would he see? Cas dying? Sam giving him some kind of last rites? He wouldn't put it past him.

Dean looked inside the small crack in the doorway and peeked in. He saw Cas lying on their bed, head turned toward Sam, who was trying to figure something out, from the look of it. Dean just watched and listened. "What is it, Cas?" And Cas brought his arm up from the bed, holding out his left palm. His right hand formed a sort of pointed position, and he practically stabbed his hand. Sam's eyebrows furrowed as Cas moved his right hand across his palm. Dean looked down at the ground, contemplating what he meant, and when he brought his gaze up again, he was right. Sam held a notepad out for Cas, along with a pen.

"Here," the younger sibling spoke. Dean feared it was going to happen eventually; Cas was having more and more of a struggle talking. It would take him longer to say three words, and sometimes he'd find himself forgetting what he was saying in the first place. Dean watched as Cas grabbed the notepad and pen, then started scribbling. One stroke after another, the black ink must have been reaching the paper, because Cas was not stopping. Sam tilted his head to see what the man on the bed was writing. When the strokes stopped, Sam frowned. "'I'm sorry'?" Dean blinked; Sam asked their question. "For what?"

Cas scribbled again; Sam read it aloud. "'For everything.'" Dean bowed his head—he knew what was happening. He put both hands on either side of the doorframe and closed his eyes. He heard the notepad being put down on his lap, the beeping steady. He could imagine Sam's face, his whole body relaxing, the sullen expression overcoming his entire being. All the while, Cas would be staring at him with those blue eyes, pale as a ghost, waiting for an answer.

"You're forgiven" was quietly within those four walls, and Dean bit down on his lip. He didn't look into that room, but he could tell you what happened: Sam rested his hand on top of Cas's hand, Cas took in a deep breath as if the weight of the world was lifted, and old blue eyes disappeared from the world.

The machine slightly sped up.

**x x x**

Cas hardly fought when he had to be put in a wheelchair whenever he wanted to go somewhere.

Dean hated the wheelchair, especially when Cas waited for him on the porch if he went somewhere. But the crinkled up sign always said the same thing:

'Welcome home, Dean.'

**x x x**

Dean had learned to be patient with Cas when he was writing, even when his hand kept twitching when he was writing.

"You sure you want to do this, Cas?"

Scribble.

The notepad faced Dean. 'Yes.'

His blue eyes never lied.

**x x x**

_Knock, knock, knock._

Bobby opened the door to his home. "Boys?" He had not been expecting their presence at his home, and to see Cas outside was a bit rare, especially with how pale and sullen he looked just by sitting in that old wheelchair (Bobby didn't hesitate when giving it to Dean). Dean stood behind him, hands on the handles, doing his best to look and stay strong. He looked as though he would crack at any moment, and Bobby had told him to talk to the dying man about his health and death soon approaching ("Boy, you need to talk to him right now. It ain't gonna get any better, you know." "I know, which is why you need to drop it.").

"Hey, Bobby," Dean spoke, which Bobby would have guess would happen anyhow, seeing as how Cas's notepad rested on his shaking lap, and Cas hardly saying a word at the time. "Mind if we join you? This won't take long," the old hunter could see the plea in the angel's old eyes, the bright blue oceans staring at him as though it meant all the world.

Even if the plea was not there, he wouldn't have said no. He stepped aside so the two could go inside his home—he figured the guys out in the yard would ask questions later. Closing the door, he turned to face them. "So what can I do for ya?" Dean looked down, noticing the twitches getting more and more violent as the pain wracked through his body, then back up at Bobby.

"Cas here wants to talk to ya," Bobby stared at Dean for a good moment, understanding full well that it was serious. Dean looked back down to the man in the chair; Bobby's eyes followed. Cas dipped his head down (his shoulders bobbed every once in a while, and he could hardly keep his head down straight without having it tilted) and he watched as the angel grabbed the notepad in his lap, fumbling to get it turned around. He was getting frustrated. Dean brought one of his hands from the handles to one of Cas's shoulders. "Hey," he hushed, "Bobby's not goin' anywhere," and Bobby heard him take a deep breath, rasped, then released the air.

Soon enough, the notepad was turned around. The same message was on there, the same one for Sam. And Bobby read it, and asked the same question; Dean thought about smirking at the similarity, but instead watched for Bobby's reaction for the next page. He knew it could go down two different routes: either he'd be okay with the apology, or he'd be angry because of the Hell they all went through because of him. Bobby read the last page when it was finally shown to the world, and Dean kept his eyes on the old hunter standing there.

It was dead silent for a brief moment, as if the world stopped altogether. Bobby just stood there, thinking of ways to get it all out for the angel; Cas looked up at the hunter, hoping for some kind of forgiveness, whether it was for one thing or for everything; Dean hoped. Finally, Bobby stepped forward, hands out of his pockets, and he knelt down to meet Cas's eyes. "Boy, you caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people," he whispered. Cas nodded, and Dean didn't know whether it was because of a twitch or if he understood; Bobby continued. "But you also helped a lot of people along the way. I don't know where we'd be without ya, Cas. So whatever you think you did to me where you have to apologize, you're forgiven. Hell, we should be apologizin' to you for all the crap we put you through."

Dean felt the angel tense up in the chair, unable to really grasp on what had just happened. Bobby looked up at him, then back to Cas. The machine on the side of the chair started beeping faster and faster, and they both started hearing him have trouble breathing. With all his might, he started crushing the notepad in his hands; Dean moved from behind the chair to in front of it in an instant, Bobby moving away from the two. He just stood over them and watched. Dean placed both hands on either side of his face, staring into the blue eyes.

"Hey, hey, Cas," He still had trouble breathing. "Just a deep breath in, do as I do, Cas," And Bobby watched as Dean took a deep breath in, sucking in as much air as possible, then letting it all out. Cas tried, failed a few times, but eventually got the hang of it. "That's it." The machine started to slow down, Cas's eyes started to close, and Dean tried to match his breathing, tried to make sure he was okay. The notepad fell back on his lap, shaking with the legs that twitched. Dean, knowing that Cas would be okay, let his hands fall away from his face and turned to face Bobby.

"Hey, thanks, Bobby. It means a lot to him."

Bobby nodded, worried that his forgiveness almost killed a man. Dean's green eyes sparkled. He didn't even have to think twice. "Don't mention it."

**x x x**

Cas stopped breathing one night for almost a minute. Sam gave him CPR (Dean had to watch from a distance after he yelled "Sam!").

The next morning, Dean came home with a ventilator.

**x x x**

Near the end of the month, Cas didn't have enough strength to go outside to sit and wait for Dean. He didn't hear the sigh of relief come from Dean when he rushed to the bedside.

Instead, he dreamt of the light.

_It was growing brighter and brighter as he stepped closer and closer. It hurt to walk—it hurt to even breathe. But the closer he got, the more it went away. Little by little, he could feel his body slowly coming back to life, as though the light was healing him. He wanted to run as fast as he could toward the light, to get himself back together again, but as he walked, he started to remember. The shadows started losing its dark colors on the invisible walls, and the light was getting so warm. He knew he had to keep walking—but one shadow stood beside him, and it was almost as though it was talking to him._

_He stopped and turned toward the shadow, opening his mouth. What is it that you want? It was the first time he spoke in weeks, and he was almost surprised to even hear his voice come out in the first place. The shadow stopped moving with him, tilting its head and obviously staring back at him. Its white eyes blinked, turning green. Cas felt the light disappearing again, and when he turned his head to look at it leave, it was gone._

Cas woke up to the sound of the machine next to him beeping. He was alone. He looked at the clock on the table and noticed how close it was to them having dinner (he barely ate anymore, what with his stomach disliking anything that entered his body). He could smell the aroma in the air, hear the faint sizzling on the stove. He was sure Dean was cooking, seeing as how Sam usually baked in the oven instead of using the stovetop. As much as Cas wanted to walk out to the kitchen and join them, he felt the pain in his legs and chest weigh him down. He was fine in bed.

He glanced at the books on the table. He was sure he read them, but he couldn't remember what they were about. He could barely read the authors' names, much less the titles on the spines. Cas hugged the sheets against his body and closed his eyes. He wondered how many more times he would wake up to any sound whatsoever before meeting his maker.

**x x x**

Another day, he thought, as he closed the door of the Impala. It had been nearly a month since Cas was out of the hospital, and they all knew they were heading toward the final days. They just didn't know when it was going to be. He looked up at the porch. Dean was used to not seeing Cas on the porch, but with the door to his house open? "Sam?" He called out; no response. He looked around the outside of his home, glancing over by the lake and over by the trees that lined the lake—nothing. They never had the door open. Dean placed the bag of groceries down on the step and eased his way into his own house.

Who was after them? Who knew they lived there? He looked in the kitchen first, along with the living room; no one was there. Nothing was out of order, either. He peeked his head into another empty room near the kitchen, then peered down the hallway. Of course, the one door that had been open was their bedroom. Naturally, he thought.

He could still hear the beeping of the machine from Cas. So he wasn't dead, that was a good sign. Still, something was in their house, and he would not rest until the little bastard was out and gone. So step by step he walked down the hallway, passing the little tables lined up on the wall. When he got to the door, he let his head slowly peek around the corner of the doorframe, scanning the room all the while. He saw Cas still in the bed, his eyes open, looking up; another being was right next to him, looking down. He did not hesitate.

"Get away from him, you—" the person turned around. Dean stopped in his tracks—which was probably a good thing, seeing as how he had no weapon to save Cas in the first place. Cas weakly turned his head toward his partner, trying to rasp out his name, but Dean paid no attention to him. Instead, his eyes stayed on the thing in the room. "What are you doing here?" It sighed, looking back down at the angel on the bed.

"I should not be here," the feminine voice said to them both. Cas turned back to the person above him, blinking at the statement made. Dean walked over to the bed, on the opposite side of them.

"You're damn right you shouldn't be here, so leave," the woman did not cast her eyes over to Dean. He stood there, glancing back and forth between the other two in the room, unable to grasp what was actually going on.

"Castiel, angels in Heaven look up to the spirit you possess. You—" Dean scoffed.

"Cut the crap and just leave us be. He doesn't want you near him after what you did to him. So unless you're here to heal him—"

"I'm not. But," she bent down and looked into Cas's eyes. "I am here to give you more time." Before Dean could protest about what she meant, or push her away, she brought two fingers up to his forehead. Cas closed his eyes and breathed in; Dean watched as a small bright light travelled from her fingers to his head, and saw Cas grip the sheets in obvious pain. He climbed onto the bed the moment her touch left, and he watched as the angel relaxed.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean asked, not looking up at her.

"I gave you time, Dean Winchester, something you have worried about for weeks now," Dean watched the angel below him flutter his eyes open, the blue somehow brighter than before. The girl stood there, and Cas looked around.

"Cas?" Cas made eye contact with him for only a moment before he started coughing again, pulling the ventilator away from his mouth. Dean wanted to put the stupid thing back over his mouth again, but Cas shook his head. And he understood as he watched the angel breathe again. It was like he was breathing in fresh air again.

Cas pushed himself off the mattress and leaned on his arms—it was weird. He felt healthy. He felt as though the last months weren't real, as if it were a test. The pain was still there, but it was at a minimum. He could breathe. He could think. He could do a lot of things that he couldn't in weeks prior. He let his head tilt to the woman in the room. "Sophia," he whispered—his first word. He saw Dean's eyes widen, and he was tensing. Sophia sighed.

"You are not completely healed, Castiel. I cannot allow you to live, nor can God, but you deserve more time. Angels in Heaven find you brave, little warrior of God. They will see this decision fit for you," she confessed. Dean blinked, letting the words sink in—more time. They had more time. He looked up at the angel above them as Cas looked down at his body, seeing the color somewhat coming back.

"How much time?" Dean whispered. Sophia turned her head.

"On the second Monday, before the sun rises, an angel will return," Dean bit down on his lip, nodding at the remark.

"So a week and a half," he replied. She nodded. How much time did they have before all of that? A day? Two? Was Cas on his dying breath when he got home? He didn't want to think about it. He wasn't even sure if he was prepared for a week and a half again, much less a day or two. Dean watched as Sophia leaned toward him, her hand grazing his cheek—she was warm.

"Dean Winchester, Heaven's Righteous Man," she decreed. "Do not waste any time worrying of the precious time you have gained. Spend it wisely with dear Castiel before you cannot." Dean closed his eyes, turning away from her. Her warmth left—he was sure it went to Cas next, but he couldn't bring himself to look at them, or her for that matter. Damn angels seeing into his soul. "Castiel," she whispered, "We shall meet again. Not like this, but rather in the Eternal Glory of our Lord." Then she started chanting in some other language, which Dean assumed to be Enochian, and he heard a committal grunt from Castiel next to him.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed the two crying. As weird as it was to see the angel crying, he was shocked at Cas opening up with his emotions like that. Dean just stared as the water pooled in his eyes, wanting to fall down his face. And he wanted to reach and wipe the wetness already on his eyelids, but Cas grabbed his hand, the strength back in his hand. It felt—fantastic. Dean's heart swelled, as though he wanted to cry at the emotional turmoil that was happening at that moment. Castiel gave a small nod to Sophia, who smiled, and then the wind blew.

She was gone before he could thank her.

**x x x**

The first thing Cas did was take a shower—alone, much to Dean's discretion ("Don't tell me you wouldn't want to take a shower with me, Cas!").

It felt right.

**x x x**

Dean sat with Cas at the dinner table, with Cas gobbling down as much food as he could—and he was so thankful. Dean cooked him burgers and hot dogs and steaks, and he was still eating. Sam just stared at him by the sink, wondering how in the world the small man who used to be frail as ever was suddenly just eating. Of course, Dean told Sam what had happened, and Sam still had the same mindset as before ("He's still dying, Dean. This doesn't mean anything's changed."). But Dean didn't mind; watching Cas eat was sort of entertaining.

Sam chuckled. "Don't you think you should slow down before you get sick?" It earned him two glares from the table; he threw his hands up in defense. "Alright, alright. So," he pushed off from the sink and pulled the other chair from the table, sitting down next to both of them. "Any idea what you guys are going to do together?"

Sam knew Dean wanted to spend as much time as possible with Cas, alone, and Sam was not going to ruin it for them. Especially when the younger sibling told him that he'd find it more comfortable living at Bobby's for the week to week and a half, unless Dean needed them. "Dude, you need to spend all the time you can with him. I'm not going to get between you two." Dean thanked him, and told Sam that if he spoke about their little moment together, he'd seriously beat the snot out of him. Sam understood, smirking at his older brother getting a bit excited at being with Cas.

Dean shrugged. "That's all up to Cas over here. Whatever he wants to do, we'll do. Right?" Cas nodded; Dean smiled. "That's the plan. He just needs to come up with stuff."

Cas swallowed the bit of hotdog in his mouth before speaking. "Well," Dean would never get over the deep voice back in his life. He thought it was gone forever when the notepad was being used. Cas reached into his jeans pocket, and both the brothers watched him take out a small yellow piece of paper before handing it to Dean.

Dean started to unfolding the piece of paper, confused. When he opened it, it was a list of activities. "Cas, when were you going to tell me about this?"

Cas bowed his head. "I figured you would want to do other things besides wheel a dying man around," he said. Dean shook his head, almost letting out a laugh.

"Cas, you idiot," he replied, refolding the piece of paper. Cas let his eyes travel back to Dean's green ones, and he saw the piece of paper being held in the air. "You and me, we're going to have fun, alright?"

Cas bit down on the hotdog and nodded. As much as it pained them, they smiled.

**x x x**

"Seriously? You want to do this first?" Dean sat down next to him. Cas felt a little tired, probably from the grace slowly dissipating from his body, but he nodded.

"Yes. I remember when we were first on a dock. You were fishing, and it seemed—pleasant," he said, holding a fishing rod in his hands. Dean held one as well, casting a line out to the water. They both had their legs swinging off the end of the dock (well, Dean did at first, moving the water around them both; Cas just let his feet soak first before joining Dean from watching him). The sun had barely risen for the day, and there were some clouds overhead, but it was a nice, cool morning, especially for the Fall.

Dean looked over at him. "Well, yeah. Fishing's peaceful, Cas. No monsters to attack you but some stupid fish that thinks he's getting a free meal."

"I do not think the fish is stupid," Cas replied, turning to Dean. Dean rose an eyebrow in wonder. "It is merely trying to survive."

"Yeah, well," Dean turned back to the glittering lake ahead of them. "So am I." He brought his line back in before casting it out again, letting the bobber sit on the waves ahead. Cas chuckled.

They sat there for almost the entire day, fishing for the "stupid fish" in the lake—Dean was right, he thought; fishing was peaceful.

Well, until Dean finally caught a fish. Then it was rather loud. "Yeah! See, Cas? They're stupid."

Cas didn't call Dean stupid for accidentally dropping the fish back in the lake. He merely chuckled and watched Dean's annoyance turn into a smile.

**x x x**

Dean hated putting up tents. They were annoying, they never looked right, and they were weak whenever a wind blew through the forest. He knew they shouldn't have stayed on the dock for so long, but no, Cas just wanted to stay there for an extra hour or two, fishing or not ("I like it here," he said, leaning against Dean when he closed his eyes; Dean agreed). Cas dropped some of the wood around near their tent, watching as Dean was close to kicking the tent straight to Hell. "Dean," Cas said, and the hunter turned to him.

"Seriously, who made tents?" he said, kicking the metal poles away from them. Cas watched as the poles scattered away, rolling toward the nearby trees in the forest. It was the second item on his list of things to do—he had heard that camping was fun, and he wanted to try it before "kicking the bucket", as Dean had said once before. He was unsure why he'd be kicking a bucket, but if it made sense to him, it must mean something. Cas heard Dean huff in a fit of anger before turning to him. "Did you get the firewood?"

Cas pointed down to the ground, Dean's eyes following. Of course, the green eyes sparkled in the dim light still around. He let out a couple of laughs. "Ah, yes, let there be fire," Dean said, making his way over to the wood. Cas didn't understand how he would light the wood with matches, some kind of fluid, and paper, but sure enough, the fire came. Dean laid on the forest floor and blew into the fire, and Cas watched as the smolders spread. In minutes, it would be tall—and it was pretty warm around. Dean smiled at his creation, proud of himself. He turned around to Cas just standing in amazement at the entire thing.

"How did you do that?" Cas asked.

Dean moved back from the fire, sitting on the ground. "Life's biggest mystery, Cas," he said, before waving him down to the ground with him. "Now, come on. This fire won't last all night."

Cas looked at Dean, then the ground, then back to the fire. It was a mystery, yes—he'd rather contemplate the mystery with Dean. He moved over to the sitting man and sat down himself, their knees brushing against each other as they watched the fire rise toward the sky. Dean had his palms behind him, leaning back on the weight that held him. Cas just sat there. It reminded—Cas looked over at the man sitting next to him. Green eyes glowed, just like the one in his dream. "Dean," he whispered. Dean turned his head.

"Yeah?" A flash of worry in his eyes—Cas softened his expression. He did not want to worry him.

Cas let his eyes flicker back to the fire. "This reminds me of my dreams," he remarked, and he saw Dean lean forward again.

"You mean the ones with the light," he said. Cas nodded. He was afraid Dean would yell at him, but instead said: "Let's not mention that—the light—when we're doing this, alright? It's your last days, Cas. You gotta enjoy them." As much as Cas worried about the light, Dean was right. It scared Dean half to death, that light, and Cas had a feeling it was Heaven pulling him toward them, but he wasn't exactly sure. He watched Dean turn away from Cas, and heard a bag crinkling. Cas leaned forward to peek around the huge frame hiding something.

"What are you doing?" Cas asked. Dean spun around, holding two bags in his hands with a box of graham crackers.

"We're going to have some s'mores, Cas," a grin on his face. Cas tilted his head; Dean became worried, but for a different reason. "Don't tell me you've never had one before."

Cas shook his head. Dean sort of rolled his eyes toward the fire. "Yeah, okay, you're definitely having one."

They spent the next ten minutes explaining how to make a s'more ("Dean, the stick will catch on fire." "Trust me, Cas, it won't"), and they shared a laugh or two in the mix ("Cas, you don't try to fry the graham cracker!").

Cas found it delicious, as much as it looked disgusting. Dean stopped him after he ate five of them in a row. "Slow down there, tiger—don't want you getting diabetes or something."

"It cannot be any worse than cancer."

"Shut up."

**x x x**

"Now, Cas, ease on the gas pedal. Don't hurt her," Dean said as he sat in the passenger seat. Cas thought it was a bad idea to even let him behind the wheel, seeing as how his vision was starting to decline, and his hands were a little weaker—and Dean hated when others drove his Baby—but it was only Saturday. They had almost 8 days left.

Cas looked down at the pedals by his feet. "Which one is which again?"

"The skinny one is the gas pedal," Dean reminded him, even though Cas was just told which one it was. Cas nodded, pressing down on the black skinny thing. The car jerked forward. He quickly switched to the other pedal; it jerked forward again. Both men flew toward the dashboard together when it did. "Jesus, Cas, I said ease on it!"

"I did," he replied.

"You don't slam on the gas or the brake! Just, slowly push down on it," Dean moved his hand in the air down, as if giving Cas a demonstration on how it was supposed to happen. Cas just stared at him. He looked back to the pedals. "You need to look out the windshield too, you know. You can't just stare at the pedals as you drive."

"But we are only on the dirt road," Cas motioned to what was outside. It was true. They were on their dirt road learning how to drive—Dean didn't trust him any farther than their home.

"Yeah, there's a reason for that," Cas glanced between the pedal under his foot and the windshield, and when he gently—Dean sighed in relief when he did—pushed down on the pedal, he looked out the windshield. They were moving—they were moving! Cas gripped the steering wheel with all his might, worried that the shaking was caused by him. Dean smiled. "That's it, Cas!" Cas widened his eyes when they hit a slight bump in the road, and he quickly brought his foot to the brake. Again, they jerked forward, but Dean didn't mind.

"I did okay?" Cas asked, turning to the man next to him.

Dean just smiled. "You're a natural."

**x x x**

For the first time in days, Cas vomited. They lounged on the couch and watched movies together. "I do not mind adding things on the list, Dean," Cas said.

Dean's arm just tightened around his body.

**x x x**

Another night brought them to the middle of a field nearby. The pain in his body was getting worse, but lying on the cold ground kept his head okay for a while. Dean had his arm underneath him, and they both stared up at the stars around. They twinkled, sparkled, glimmered, and Cas stared in wonder at the creation before them. Cas thought 'stargazing' would mean just getting a telescope from somewhere, but Dean pulled him away from the house and told him it was a surprise. Yes, a surprise almost in the middle of the night—Cas wondered if Dean was okay ("Oh, don't worry about me, Cas, everything's awesome").

Dean turned his head to look at Cas. The blue eyes flittered back and forth at the sky above, trying to gather all the stars in his vision somehow. Even with the extra given by the angels, it still wasn't easier. They had a week. Dean wondered if Cas would remember any of it when he passed, or if God would wipe his memory clean. He wondered how many more days they had left before Cas couldn't do anything at all, how many more memories there could be before he'd be gone. How many more days did he have to remember everything about Cas, just like that?

Cas nudged Dean's side without looking at him. "One is falling," he said. Dean looked up to the sky and saw one of the stars shooting across the sky. He wanted to correct Cas, but he left it alone. Cas turned to Dean, who turned back to Cas. "I do believe you make a wish when that happens," he whispered. Dean leaned forward and let his forehead rest on Cas's, their noses brushing. They both closed their eyes.

Cas wished for Dean to be okay.

Dean wished for Cas to remember.

**x x x**

Cas was too exhausted to go out. Dean stayed in bed with him—they found energy calling out each other's names.

**x x x**

He was starting to lose his voice again, but he was still able to walk. Dean started to cross out the item on the list—"walk around the lake." Dean felt Cas loop his arm around his, trying to find the strength to walk, and Dean just gave a forced smile. It was harder the second time around, seeing Cas greatly deteriorate before his eyes. He thought the time would be a blessing, but it was torture. All the groans and moans (not caused by Dean) and the thrashing (again—) for some kind of way to get rid of the pain did not make it better. It was Hell.

Step, step, step, then they were starting their journey around the water. Sure, he thought about other things he could have been doing—but it was Cas. Everything was trumped when his card came into play. As much as the fallen angel struggled to breathe and walk, he managed to walk alongside Dean, both admiring the cool breeze coming off the lake and the changing colors around them. Dean looked down at the frail man again, seeing the color leaving him each and every day. "You know, Cas…" he drifted off as Old Blue Eyes—he'd never get tired of that nickname—looked up at him. So many words were spinning in his head, so many things he could have said.

Cas brought his free hand up to his cheek, Dean leaning into his warm palm. Cas knew everything he wanted to say—damn angels seeing into souls—and Dean saw the response in the blue ones that shined next to him. A kiss to the forehead, closed eyes relishing in the moment, eyes locked when he pulled away, and they continued their walk around the lake. They never parted, they never let go, they barely talked—they just walked.

And that was okay.

**x x x**

Cas needed the wheelchair. He could still talk—barely—but his legs were giving out too fast. He sat outside under the clouded sky with Dean standing behind him, leaning on the handles of the chair. They both watched as the water from the hose sprayed the little garden by the steps, along with the tree near the porch. "Just a small day at home" said the note. Cas moved the hose around the garden, trying to get every inch—although his hand would twitch some ways and he'd drag it back to where it was before.

Dean looked at the small vegetables standing there, along with a few flowers peeking out from the ground. "We should have some of this for dinner," he said to Cas.

Cas hummed. "Yes," he replied, agreeing. Cas let his head tilt back, their faces close to one another. "You—You…" Dean saw Cas close his eyes, breathing in again, then opening them. Dean learned to be patient—he was fine. "You will…take care…of this for me?" Cas remembered—well, he remembered what he could about anything those days—how Dean did not want any part of the garden. He "wouldn't be caught dead" trying to do something that would bring down his masculinity (even though Cas always caught him staring at the garden with wonder).

Dean smiled, then brought his lips down to kiss the tip of Cas's nose. The water suddenly shut off. He pulled away, and his eyes flicked to the vegetables dripping from the water. "I think you missed a spot," he whispered, and Cas shook his head, pressing the nozzle of the hose once more.

He promised to take care of the garden.

**x x x**

As much as Dean put up a strong front, whenever he was alone, he couldn't help but pray to God it was all just a dream. He would close his eyes and drift back to the past, when Cas was well, when he would come back from the garage to see Cas cooking for him, or when they were in bed together, or when they spent time in the nearest time just grocery shopping.

So when he opened his eyes, he was back in reality, back to his watering eyes burning.

**x x x**

Dean stared at the calendar on the fridge. Monday was circled—it was Friday. _"On the second Monday, before the sun rises, an angel will return."_ He stirred the ingredients for their dinner—"a dinner with Dean" was on the list, and Dean would give him that—before turning away from the fridge. Enough of that, he thought. He heard the meat on the stove sizzle, the grease popping in the air, and he placed the bowl of sauce on the countertop before moving it around. Some stir fry with some steak and chicken mixed in was good enough for the two of them.

He just had to make sure it wouldn't get on his clothing. Cas wrote to him: "You don't have to dress up for this." But Dean refused such a thing.

"When am I gonna have another chance like this, Cas?"

So it was decided that they'd at least look decent instead of in ripped jeans and a dirty shirt. Dean was wearing some dressier slacks—which meant dark jeans without any holes—along with a plain t-shirt under one of his button-up shirts. Sure, it wasn't a suit, but he looked decent. Dean turned the dial on the stove down, realizing the food was almost done, and brought the soy sauce from the counter to the food on the stove. He watched the liquid mix with the rice and steak inside, and he thought again. For all he knew, it was Cas's last dinner. For all he knew, it would be the last time they'd have a meal together.

It broke his heart.

He put the bowl on the countertop again, picked up his wooden spoon, then stirred again. It smelled really good. _Click._ He turned the stove off before taking the pan off the top. The two plates on the countertop were suddenly full of steak, chicken, and rice—one plate had more than the other, for very obvious reasons—and Dean marveled at the creation. He placed the leftovers inside the pan back on the stove, on a different burner, and he looked back at the meal. That was it, he thought. The last meal. Dean closed his eyes and breathed in—it wasn't the time to break down, not then.

He grabbed the plates and moved around the home. As much as he wanted the dinner at the table, he knew Cas wouldn't make it that far. So dinner in bed didn't seem too bad. He turned around and let the door hit his back; he backed into the room. "Hope you're ready for some dinner here, Cas," he said, turning his head to the man on the bed sitting against the headboard. As pale and frail as he looked, he was still able to smile. The notepad rested on his lap.

Dean smirked when he saw Cas in one of his t-shirts—another plain one, but it was green, one of his favorites—and saw a small candle on the table next to him. "Where'd you find the candle?" Dean asked as he climbed on the bed alongside Cas. Cas's head dipped down as he started to write. Sure, his writing looked like a kindergartner wrote it, but it was still legible. Cas let the notepad sit there as Dean read it. "I didn't think we had any around the house." Cas shrugged. When did the angel find time to look for it in the first place?

Cas moved the notepad in between them, in case he needed to talk, and Dean moved the smaller plate onto the others' lap. Cas just stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it all, and I'm sure you won't, but…" Cas grabbed the fork on the plate—Dean didn't know how much strength he had left—and brought a piece of steak to his mouth. Open, close, chew, swallow—Cas hummed in content. His right hand was scribbling something on the paper.

Dean looked down. "Delicious, huh?" He smiled. "Of course it is. I made it, you know," Cas gave him a small glare, watching Dean eat a chunk of food. Cas didn't want to look away. He wanted to remember Dean, wanted to take in everything he still could about Dean. He was still such a puzzle to Cas, still the man that didn't think he deserved to be saved, but Cas knew he needed to be by him. Even when he slept, the dreams he had brought him back to Dean—and that was enough.

Cas scribbled something on the notepad again; Dean looked down as he chewed his food. He noticed the hand stop and place the pen on the bed. "'Thank you,'" Dean read. The hand grabbed the fork again, bringing yet another piece of food to his mouth. Dean moved closer to Cas, their sides touching one another as they lied on the bed together, eating their dinner together. Cas, of course, did not eat all of his food (Dean did), but he ate and cherished as much as possible. It would be the last time he would eat something Dean made; it would be the last thing he could enjoy that was made by Dean.

The only thing left to cherish was Dean himself, and his voice was music to his ears. "You're welcome, Cas."

**x x x**

It was Saturday—Cas was back to where he was a week and some odd days ago. He barely could make it out of bed, he was sweating, his body ached, and his breathing was getting worse and worse. He was put back on the ventilator in the middle of the night, when Dean had to help him through a coughing fit. Of course, Dean saw the blood on the sheets, and Cas closed his eyes before he could get his full reaction. All he felt was a pair of lips on his forehead and the warmth leaving as he went to get a warm washcloth.

He had faced Death before. He knew where he was going to end. He knew God was waiting for him—but he was still so afraid. He wished he could be home, on Earth, with Dean and Sam and Bobby. He did not want to be torn away from them. He did not want to get his wings. Castiel, God's most loyal soldier, wanting to stay on Earth. He wouldn't have thought the day would have come years ago, before Dean, before everything that had happened in his life. And yet there he was, staring at the ceiling above him, wishing God wouldn't take him away.

He closed his eyes. Dean, Cas thought.

He drifted into a listless sleep.

**x x x**

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Brrrrrrrring._

_Click._

_"Singer residence."_

"Bobby."

_"Dean?"_

"I—I—you need to come over."

**x x x**

The first to enter was Bobby. Sam stayed out in the hall by the door, staring down the long hallway to Dean, who didn't even look back once. When they had arrived at the home, Dean looked lost. "He—He's back there," every once in a while, his eyes reaching their eyes, and they wanted to sympathize with him. They wanted to say a lot, but Dean motioned them to the back bedroom, leaning against the sink as they walked away from him. His back never left Sam's sight, not once.

Bobby sat down in the massive chair set up by the bed. He wondered how many nights Dean sat there, watching Cas sleep (it was over four times, mostly when Cas started coughing and having troubles breathing; he knew he wouldn't die, not until Monday, but he had to make sure he wouldn't miss saying—). He looked up at the machine beeping overhead—it was steady and relaxed. He couldn't tell you what the numbers meant, but there was still a heartbeat to be had. That's all that mattered, he thought.

Cas looked miserable. His lips were very chapped and pale; his skin was ghostly white; the dark circles under his eyes seemed to be as black as coal; his arms weren't as strong as they used to be, but bony and fragile; the ventilator over his mouth, plus his chest heaving up and down, showed just how much he was holding on. Over the incessant beeping, Bobby could hear the rasps and gasps he was making for the air he was breathing. And when he coughed? It was a horrible sound—it wheezed, gasped, and choked for air. It didn't help that some fluids came with it, mostly blood (he didn't even want to remark on how much there was next to his head on the pillow and sheet).

Cas opened his eyes, tilting his head to the man sitting next to him. His eyes were dimmer than before—they looked clouded. He understood. Still, Bobby caught him by surprise. "Hey there, Cas," he said to him. Cas continued to stare at him; he looked—confused. "It's me, Bobby," he rested his hand on top of the dying man's, feeling the bones poke out from the skin. Cas didn't squeeze back, but Bobby watched his eyes flutter about, as if searching for something.

_Bobby…Bobby…Bobby Singer, hunter, close to the two boys._

Cas slowly blinked, understanding who it was finally. His head was pounding after searching for the memory, but it was there, somewhere. Bobby nodded, knowing Cas was there with him, knowing that somehow, no matter how hard it was, he remembered. "Yeah, it's me. I'm never good with this kind of stuff, but," he paused, hearing the deep breathing Cas was doing again. Bobby wanted to know what was going through his head ( _Do not say goodbye, I want to stay, let me stay…_ ). Bobby squeezed his hand and sort of shook it, his stern look staring back to Cas. "You were good to us, son. You did enough, more than enough. You…" Bobby took in a deep breath, just like Cas. Then he sighed. "You be good up there. I don't wanna see no Angel civil wars down here, alright?"

Cas closed his eyes in acknowledgment. The beeping on the machine stayed the same, even as the hand disappeared from him, even as Bobby stood to leave, even as Cas felt a pain in his heart.

**x x x**

"Dean."

"Bobby, I—"

"It's alright. You did what you could for him."

"…Yeah."

**x x x**

He stood outside the door, wondering when to go inside. Bobby had left some time ago—could have been up to an hour, he didn't know—and he was left to go inside. Sam took one last look down the hallway to Dean, who still had his back to the younger sibling, then back to the door. And when he opened the door, his heart sank. Cas already looked dead, and he already looked like he should have been dead hours ago. Yet there he was, lying on his back, his legs still moving around to get rid of the pain. He imagined the dosage on the pain medication was at its maximum, but he probably wanted more. He closed the door.

Sam walked around the bed. That was it. At that moment—he didn't think they'd get to that moment, what with all the times he sat by Cas during the days and just read a book, or watched him sleep, or made sure he was still breathing. But there they were, the moment they had been leading up to, the moment where Sam dreaded, the moment Cas asked what it would feel like from the time he knew his fate.

Sam sat down in the chair. Many moments in the chair, and in other chairs, with Cas lying on the bed while he just sat. It wasn't like there was much to do around town where he found it to be troubling, or that him taking care of his friend was too much of a burden. He was glad he had those moments with him; he was glad he spent some time with him, no matter if the man slept most of the day away. He chuckled to himself as he thought about the time he spoke to Cas when he was asleep (it was nothing important, but he didn't think he would do such a thing in his life). Cas opened his eyes again and stared.

Again, the confused look in his eyes was back—who was he? He seemed familiar. Sam gave a small, sad smile. "Hey, it's me, Sam," he said, remembering Bobby's words about saying his name to the angel. They knew he was forgetting things in his past; they didn't expect it to be people, too. Cas's eyes flickered around again, scanning every part of his face, trying to piece together the puzzle.

_Sam…Sam…Sam…Sam Winchester, hunter, the boy with the demon blood, Dean's brother._

He blinked. Sam sighed in relief. "Didn't think you'd remember me," he said leaning forward, legs drawn apart, hands hanging in the air. He bowed his head, staring at the hardwood floor (Dean was sure to have a fit to see how worn down it was—it wasn't important). He didn't know if Cas would be okay with him holding his hand or anything, so he brought his own hands together, rubbing his thumbs, trying to find something to say. He didn't catch the glint in Cas's eyes, wondering why someone would not try their hardest not to remember Sam Winchester—after all, he deserved to be remembered. Sam looked back up.

"I—God, how do you talk to someone on their death bed? We never got this pleasure with our other friends, you know?" And Cas knew. There were many that had been lost—he did not know their names, but he knew. He saw the solace in the boy. "I just…it's gonna be weird without you around, and I know—" He stopped himself. No, don't talk about Dean. Dean would talk to him. "But I know you're going to Heaven, so there's some comfort for all of us here." Cas blinked; Sam continued. "I don't think I'll ever understand the angels and why they had to do this to you, Cas, and I find it so—I don't even know what to call it—blasphemous? But, Heaven. I told you you'd go there," he whispered, catching another part of confusion from Cas. "You were asleep when I told you you'd get your wings again in no time. You wouldn't remember that." Cas nodded; of course not, he thought.

"You know, it's funny," he gave a small smile, "When I first met you, it was—man, it was so great to have met you, Cas. Even if we had our troubles throughout, even if we weren't always on the same page, you…you were family. You are family, I should say. You've always been a part of this family—this screwed up, bogus family. Honestly, I don't know why you chose to stick around for as long as you did, but…" Sam started to choke up, so he bowed his head to hide the emotions. He wasn't ashamed to cry around him, but he thought he could do his best to not break down in front of someone dying. When he looked back up, Cas was still staring at him, a sad expression fallen on his face. "But I'm really glad you did, Cas. I loved you like a brother, and I have all the respect in the world for you. You fought long and hard—you deserve to rest."

The beeping on the machine sped up a little, his heart beating against his chest. Sam glanced up to watch the machine rattle off new numbers, then back down to Cas. The tears were still in his eyes, but he grabbed onto the frail hand on the bed, squeezing tight. "Hey, hey, Cas, breathe, it's okay. Don't worry about us—" Sam saw the expression: but it is my job to watch and protect you, Cas thought. Sam gave him a content smile. "We'll be okay."

Cas believed him.

**x x x**

Sam caught Dean by the sink once more, looking out to the dark night that encompassed the area. Bobby had gone home—Dean told him to go. He had done enough. Sam did not rest his hand on Dean's back for comfort, nor did he move to do anything to the older sibling. He just stood there, hip against the countertop, eyes looking down at him. His brother looked—he didn't know how to explain it. He'd seen it before when he—Sam—was dying, but that was worse. It was like looking at a child losing something precious. Sam quietly asked:

"Do you want me to stay here for the night?"

Dean closed his eyes. Sam saw the small, tiny glimpse of his wall breaking down, with Dean's lips trembling at the thought, even though it was already torn down the moment they arrived earlier in the day. Sam watched his brother bow his head toward the sink, holding onto the sides of the countertop around him for support.

Dean nodded.

Sam stayed.

**x x x**

Dean didn't want to go inside. He wasn't ready.

**x x x**

Cas turned on his side; the other side of the bed was empty.

He closed his eyes.

**x x x**

_The light beckoned him. Come, Castiel, it would say. Come join us in the Eternal Sunshine our Lord in Heaven has given us this precious day. Join us in our Lord's everlasting Love and come witness yet another day He has created for those on Earth and for those above in His Paradise. He stood on the darkened path, feeling the tugs from the light push him closer and closer, and how he wanted to take another step, then another, then feel the warmth engulf him as the pain dissipated from his entire being. But his head turned to the invisible wall around him, the light still shining, the warmth never leaving, and he saw the green-eyed shadow standing by his side, holding his hand. Not a word was spoken—he was stuck in the middle._

**x x x**

Dean held his hand once he climbed into the bed.

He'd wake up. He'd have to wake up.

He'd open those eyes.

He'd open them.

Please.

**x x x**

Hours passed.

It turned into Monday.

Dean closed his eyes. Don't do this, he thought.

**x x x**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

**x x x**

Cas opened his eyes. It was getting harder and harder to open them. He thought he was engulfed by the darkness, but it was only his eyes still trying to adjust to whatever light was still left in the room. He knew it was sometime at night, perhaps early morning—yes, he thought, it was Monday morning. It had to be, because his green-eyed shadow was lying next to him, relief washing over his face, tears stuck in his eyes. "Cas, hey," it said to him. It, he thought.

_Dean._

Cas blinked. He knew. He would never forget such a bond, such a face that puzzled him beyond words. He could barely make anything out anymore—it wasn't just the darkness around that clouded his vision—but he could see into the soul. He didn't have to know how broken Dean was, how painful it was for the man next to him, silently holding onto a sliver of hope that it was all just a dream, that none of it was real. But they were done dreaming—God had no place for dreams anymore, not in their house. Dreams melded into reality, and reality pushed the dreams aside.

Dean leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Cas's, thanking God or whoever was watching for bringing him back. He closed his eyes. "I thought you left, you son of a bitch," he faltered. His voice was breaking slightly, and Cas could hear the chokes cough out from Dean, his staggering breath falling from his lips.

_It would have been a sin to leave so soon._

Cas kept his eyes open; it would be the last time he'd see the righteous man in the light. It'd be the last time together. He wanted to remember everything—he wanted to bring something with him. Dean kept his eyes closed; he could feel the tears add up in his eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to keep them away, especially in front of Cas. He knew the stupid angel would get worried.

"I—Cas, I don't—" Dean didn't know what to say. It all led up to that moment, and he had the entire day to bring his thoughts together for something at least coherent, but he sucked at it. He couldn't think of anything. He had so much that could be said, and there he was, all on the line, and he couldn't think of a damn thing. He bit down on his lip. His eyes squeezed. It was getting harder and harder to accept it at all.

Cas slipped his hand away from Dean's, bringing it up to his face. The water near his eyes collected on Cas's thumb as he wiped it away, his hand heavily resting on the sort of smooth side (Dean didn't shave). Dean moved his head into the palm on his face; Cas comforting him was not helping. Dean was supposed to comfort the dying, not the other way around. It would be the last time he'd feel the palm against his face. He'd never feel the warmth rest against his cheek again. His head turned toward the palm, his hand hurriedly reaching for Cas's hand against his cheek, and his lips kissed the dry skin trying to comfort him. He breathed in.

He felt Cas's hand squeeze back, but nothing strong compared to Dean's grip on him. Dean moved away from the hand, his forehead back against Cas's. "God damn it," he whispered, his spirit breaking right in front of Cas. Their hands went back between the two bodies, resting on the mattress with them, holding on for dear life. Dean finally opened his eyes, met with the clouded blue ones he had to become familiar with as of late. It was the last time—the last time—

"Cas, I—I'm gonna miss you, you know?" A slight nod against his forehead; Cas knew. "I mean—" Dean chuckled—chuckled!—as he felt the tears spring from his eyes. "it's not every day you get to sleep with an angel of the Lord." Cas glared; Dean smirked. It wasn't a joke, he knew that. But—he squeezed Cas's hand again, making sure he was still there, even if those clouded blue eyes were staring back at him. "It's funny," he whispered, "I always—always thought you'd die fighting." Cas shrugged as best he could; Dean closed his eyes. "I don't know—I don't know if God's gonna wipe your memory when you get up there, if you'll forget me, but—Cas—"

Green eyes met with blue ones. Both said so much in a fraction of a second.

"—You'll always be here, right here. You became a part of this family the moment you saved me from Hell, and—you've always been there for me, best friend, enemy, partner, lover, whatever. Just because you're dying doesn't mean—doesn't mean—" Dean closed his eyes, choking out a small gasp of air. Cas moved closer.

_Do not cry._

Dean opened his eyes again, swallowing down whatever was in his mouth. He tried putting up that emotional mask, but it was too much. Cas took in a deep breath and opened his mouth. "D—D—" He started to cough. Dean began to panic; no, not like that.

He brought his hands to Cas's face, watching as the fallen angel's eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Hey," Dean started shushing, rubbing his thumbs against Cas's cheekbones. "Don't—Don't try to talk, okay? Just listen," Once the coughing fit ceased, Cas opened his eyes. Dean tried to smile. "I'm glad—glad that we—" Dean bit down on his lip again, trying to fight back more tears falling. It didn't work. "We made a good team, you know?" Cas nodded against his forehead once more.

_The best that existed in all my years alive._

Dean continued to rub his cheeks, feeling the damp water collect on his own palms. "You—You were good to me," he whispered gently. He felt Cas's head lean into one of his palms. "Too good, and I—I hope I was good to you." Another nod. Dean nodded, too. "Good, good," he kept repeating, closing his eyes every once in a while. He didn't know how much longer he had. Cas felt his legs start to explode with pain. "I—I—I—" Dean opened his eyes, looking back to the other. He couldn't even say three simple words. But Cas understood completely.

_As do I._

Dean felt Cas's hand raise from the bed again, but this time to his mouth. He tore away the ventilator that covered his lips, tearing apart the only life support he really had, minus the pain medication that wasn't necessarily working at that moment. And when it was gone, Dean lowered his lips against Cas's chapped ones, tears still streaming down his face. They both closed their eyes, unable to find themselves breathing at the same event in time, and they clung to one another for as long as they could. It would be the last time Dean could taste the closest thing to Heaven; it would be the last time Cas could taste the closest thing to righteousness.

When Dean pulled away, their eyes both opening, he could feel Cas twitching next to him. Dean kept eye contact, no matter how painful it was to see the pain in his eyes. "You're—you're in pain, aren't you?" And Cas nodded. No matter if he shook his head, Dean knew he'd be lying. The hunter closed his eyes. This is it, he thought. He didn't care what time it was, didn't care if the sun would be close to rising. Time stopped for him the moment he entered that room, and he didn't know if hours passed or if it had only been minutes—none of that matter. Beep. Beep. Dean opened his eyes once more, looking at the angel gasp for air. "Hang on, Cas, let me—" One of his hands left Cas's face, reaching over the frail body under him. The machine turned off.

It was finally silent in their world, something they were not used to. Dean was wholly afraid. Cas found some quiet solitude, finally. Dean repositioned himself next to Cas, his eyes wide open; Cas's eyes were starting to fall. "Cas, I need you—I need you to listen to me, okay? Do as I say." A small nod; they would get through it. Dean stared into Old Blue Eyes—he'd never forget that name—and nodded back. "Now, listen to me, I want you to close your eyes. I'll close mine with you, just—just don't open them. Whatever you do, don't open them." Dean's eyes started to flutter close.

Cas closed his own, looking back at the darkness behind his blue eyes. Dean's hands were still there. Cas let one of his arms drape over Dean's hips, holding onto his shirt and back for dear life. His voice returned. "I promise, everything will be okay."

_I trust you._

**x x x**

Silence.

**x x x**

"You remember—you remember the light, Cas?"

_Yes._

"I—I want you to bring it back."

_Okay._

**x x x**

_The light returned. Its warmth tugged at his soul once more, the beams of light reaching out toward his sick, dying body. The green-eyed shadow next to him looked down at him, turning him toward it. The shadow placed his hands on each shoulder, and Cas kept his pale blue eyes on the man. It started to move its mouth._

"Cas, I—I know I told you—told you to stay far, far away from it."

_The light grew stronger. The dark corridor became an almost bright white casting the shadows away. The shapes that were created were disappearing in his wake, and all he did was watch as the bright green eyes stared back at him. Come, Castiel, the light beckoned. No, he thought; he had to hear out the green-eyed shadow. He trusted him._

"I need you—" Dean opened his eyes; Cas's eyes were closed. He could feel the weak breathing still come from his lips. "I need you to start walking toward it." Cas started to relax in his grip. His face started to become less tense, his breathing still there.

_But I'm scared._

"I'll—I'm right here, Cas. I'm not going anywhere."

**x x x**

_Stay with me, Cas thought, the green-eyed shadow turning toward the light. Cas turned with him. The shadow took a step, and Cas felt him being dragged toward the bright being ahead. He took another step, then another, then he was walking on his own. His strength was coming back; he was becoming whole. His legs didn't hurt anymore; his arms felt fantastic; his head stopped pounding. He was able to breathe. Cas continued to walk._

"Keep walking, Cas, don't you stop, don't—just go." Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's body. He felt Cas's grip start to decline. He let his chin rest on top of Cas's head, holding onto him even more. "Go toward the light."

_He wasn't going to stop. He couldn't look back, not then. Cas felt the light grow stronger and stronger, voices of his past welcoming him with each step he took. Soon, he forgot about the green-eyed shadow next to him—he never felt the shadow let go of his hand. He never thought about looking back—all he wanted was for the light to welcome him back. He wanted to feel it wrap its presence around his body and tell him he was okay. And he was._

"You'll be okay, Cas. You'll—You'll—" Dean turned his head down, kissing the top of Cas's head.

_Cas stopped right before the light blinded him. Finally, he thought, it was all over. He turned around to see what he left behind, and saw only a mere shadow standing right behind him, those green eyes glimmering._

"Don't—go," Dean whispered into his hair. He closed his eyes. "Cas, go toward the light."

_Cas tilted his head. The green-eyed shadow nodded. Cas brought his hand to one of his eyes; he was crying. He looked down at the water stick to his finger, and he knew. He took one last longing look to the shadow. They stood there, no worry with how much time passed, and Cas felt the light start to engulf him._

**x x x**

_Goodbye, Dean, Cas said to the shadow._

_Goodbye, Cas, was the last thing he heard before the light warmed him complete._

**x x x**

Dean felt Cas's fingers unfurl from his shirt, felt the twitching stop. He couldn't feel the angel's breath still hammer on his chest.

He opened his eyes.

He pulled away from Cas, staring down at his face. It was peaceful. "Cas?" He called out.

No response.

"Cas?" His eyes filled with tears, his heart—he could feel his lips tremble again.

No response.

He brought a hand to his lips; no breath.

He gently let his lips fall on Cas's forehead once more, before he brought him into his arms once more. He felt his arms shake as he held onto the body for dear life.

He didn't want to let go.

He couldn't.

He—

"Cas."

**x x x**

_Time of death: 5:41 A.M._

_Time of sunrise: 5:49 A.M._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just a dream, he told himself.  
> The angels never came back.  
> Cas was never sick.  
> Come on, breathe, Cas! Just breathe!
> 
> Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale! Not as angsty as the last chapter, but still has enough angst to satisfy. Thanks for reading this story, guys.

**x**

_Cover my eyes,  
Cover my ears,  
Tell me these words are a lie._

**x**

_"Mom, do you think I have an angel watching over me?"_

_"Of course, honey. We all do, each and every person on this planet."_

_"How come I can't see him?"_

_"Well, maybe he's hiding from you because he doesn't know how to say hello yet."_

_"He shouldn't be afraid of me, Mom. I'm not scary or anything."_

_"I know, dear. You're the sweetest kid in the neighborhood."_

_"Mom?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"What if my angel doesn't like me?"_

_"Honey, he loves you with everything he has to offer. It's why he's protecting you in the first place."_

_"Really?"_

_"Really."_

_"Well, then, I should love him too, right?"_

_"Right."_

_"I hope nothing harms my angel, Mom. I don't want him to go away, not ever."_

_"Oh, Dean, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to that."_

_"I know. I just—don't want him getting hurt."_

_"Nothing will ever harm him, and your angel will always be with you."_

_"You promise?"_

_"I promise with all my life."_

**x x x**

No, he thought—it was all a lie.

He didn't want to believe.

It was just a dream, he told himself.

The angels never came back.

Cas was never sick.

He'd wake up from the dream, laugh about it with Cas, and move on.

Come on, he thought, clutching to something out of his reach, and what had been out of his reach for mere minutes. Come on, breathe, Cas! Just breathe!

Nothing.

**x x x**

For the first day, Dean wished it were all just a dream. He wished the body in his arms was still breathing, was still sleeping with him, and they were just waking up to meet a new day ahead of them. He hoped the body would move in his arms and whisper the polite, but charming "Good morning, Dean" in his ears. He thought he could still feel the small, heavy breaths of life come from the body, the little pulse in his wrist, the arm trying to wrap around Dean's to have and to hold, and Dean didn't want to leave his side. He prayed his brother didn't start talking to him about burning his corpse after Dean pried his own body and soul away from the body on their bed.

The room was still so full of items from the two that lived there together, but the bed was empty—the room could be cluttered with junk up to the ceiling, but to Dean, the room would never be full again. It was incomplete; it was bare. The only things he was so used to seeing were the hospital items, but Sam quickly disposed of them when Dean wasn't looking (and he was glad for that).

Sam took the body away from the room (Dean stayed in the bathroom from a few dry heaves) after their heated discussion over what was to happen to the body ("Dean, we can't take the chance—" "Sam, he's gone through enough. He deserves a burial." "You're not thinking clearly!" "Yeah, well, neither are you!"), and while Dean wanted to fight for the coffin he wanted to build, he couldn't. There was nothing he could do; his fighting spirit was gone ("Dean—" "No, Sam, forget it"). It was why he was standing in front of their closet, holding onto the two doorknobs on each side of him, gripping the gold metallic in his palms, and nearly tearing up at the sight of the suits and clothing Cas had worn over the years.

It was why he was having such a hard time figuring out which article of clothing Cas would want to be burned in, which part of his life would he want to take with him to Heaven. Dean had already decided on the trench-coat being one of the items to burn, although he didn't want Cas to wear it. Perhaps as a send-off, Dean thought for only a moment. And he tried to remember each day when Cas would be given something new to wear, something Dean had found in the town, or they both found, or when the piece of clothing was worn during special times they had.

He looked at a rolled-up shirt mixed in with some of Dean's shirts. He remembered how the sleeves clung to Cas's muscles, how the first two top buttons were unbuttoned, how the steel blue very closely matched his eyes, and how the dark jeans loosely fit on his waist and body when he wanted to help Dean with the house's framework at one point. He was hammering a nail into the wood when he saw someone standing in the hollow doorway. _"I have finished with the stairs for the porch," he said. Dean smiled to him._

_"They're not uneven this time, are they?" Cas shook his head. Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead and let himself sit down on the dirty floor underneath. Looking at Cas, he could remember how the sweat under his armpits collected, and how the jeans (they looked brand new, but it didn't fool Dean; they were weeks old) had a few rips in them, and Dean waved him over. "Want to help me in here?"_

_Cas nodded. "If I can."_

_"Of course you can."_

Dean saw another shirt, another memory, another time and place. This time, he was brought back to one of the first nights in their finished house, when the walls were just right, the furniture was where it belonged, and where the two of them could have privacy whenever they wanted (well, unless Sam was bunked with them, which the two of them did not mind). Cas was wearing another button-down shirt, a white one, but Dean could easily see a bright blue shirt underneath when he turned away from the dishes in the sink. The light made it hard not to see the shirt. He looked down and saw a bag in Cas's hand.

_It was pushed his direction. "What's this?" Dean dug into the bag and felt a cotton material hit his fingertips. Cas moved closer and looked inside with him. Out he pulled a black shirt, with a Batman logo sketched on the chest. Dean raised an eyebrow, then looked at Cas. "Uh, thanks?"_

_Cas just stared at him. "I wish for you to put it on."_

_"What, right now?" Dean was thoroughly confused (he laughed in front of his closet—his face must've been priceless to Cas). Cas nodded. Dean placed the bag on the ground, the shirt still in his hand. "I mean, I'm sure it'll fit, Cas, so I can probably wear it tomorrow when we put the garden in—"_

_"Now, Dean," Cas ordered. Dean glanced at his partner. He knew that stare—it was one of determination, prowess, attrac—Oh._

**_Oh._ **

_Dean smirked, then let his eyes drift down at the shirt Cas was wearing. He looked back up into the blue eyes. "So, **Superman** ," Dean noticed a smirk growing on the angel's face, "how can I help you tonight?"_

_Cas's smirk grew as he stepped closer to Dean, who was leaning toward him. Dean could feel Cas's hands trickle up his chest as he spoke. "I require entrance into your bat-cave, **Batman** ," and Dean moaned—Cas was never the one to be subtle. And he knew the angel had some tricks up his sleeves, but some lines surprised the hunter. He bent his head down where their lips barely brushed, their hips rolling against each others, sending a shock of pleasure in their bodies._

_"Is that right," he whispered, feeling Cas's already heavy breathing on his lips. "You know, I just might have some Kryptonite to bring you to your knees."_

_And Cas let his fingers grip Dean's shirt. "I hoped you would," he moaned in reply, before letting Dean shut him up before continuing on. He heard the shirt drop to the floor—it wouldn't be long before the Superman shirt (along with other articles of clothing) would be joining it._

Dean closed his eyes. He wouldn't feel that again. He wouldn't have the pleasure of any of those memories being relived with someone else. He couldn't see Cas alive—standing in the kitchen with him, sitting on the couch, on the porch swing, in bed, both under the shower, anything. He was gone. He felt his lips tremble again, felt his heart start to bounce against his ribcage because of the absolute terror of knowing he was alone. His angel was gone.

**x x x**

Dean decided on a pair of dark jeans (the ones with the rips) and a black graphic shirt with a bunch of white paint meshed into the cotton. Cas only wore the shirt once, and it was on that day—but Dean understood why he kept it all that time, and why he'd be burned with it. _"You're not gonna leave if you get bored, will you?"_

_"I promise to stay with you."_

**x x x**

_In a year, Dean would put Cas's belongings into different boxes and store them in the attic. One box would be labeled "his books" and another "his clothing." Everything else stayed within reach, to let any visitors know someone else was there, but they were gone._

**x x x**

The first night alone was something Dean never wanted to experience again. Sam drank with him on the porch, listening to the crickets chirp in the woods, and they didn't talk about much. "How are you feeling?" Dean heard Sam ask him when they first sat down outside.

Dean shrugged. "How do you think?" And Dean took a swig of whiskey down the hatch, feeling the incessant burn tickle down his throat and the world getting a bit more blurry than the last time he looked at it. Sam frowned.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled, expressing his condolences for Dean's behalf. It wasn't long after that Dean replied with: "Yeah, well, so am I."

They didn't know how much time passed on the porch, but when Dean rose to go to bed, he heard his younger brother call out to him. "I miss him, too, Dean." Dean placed the now empty bottle of liquor on the wooden railing next to him, letting his fingers rub against the glass of the neck.

"Yeah," Dean let out before walking back inside. It had been a long day, with all of the preparation being put forth for Cas—they decided to burn him the following day, so Dean could have enough time to grieve ("Dean, it's gonna be tough these next couple months," Bobby said, "So get whatever you need to say off your chest so you can start movin' on."). He walked past the room where Cas's body was, given the fact they agreed to not leave him outside (wild animals, they argued) and went straight for their bedroom.

Hours passed—maybe it was only minutes, Dean never did know—but he kept staring at the side of the bed that was supposed to be occupied, that someone was supposed to be there right next to him. He kept looking back at the door from time to time, expecting him to come walking in because he was finishing up watching a movie on television, or something, then back to the empty side. Dean let his hand rest on the other side of the bed, and felt the sheets underneath form into the body that used to be there. His hand crumpled up the sheets and tore them away from the side to his own body. His arms wrapped around the thin layers that used to keep them warm at night—that used to keep both of them together—and he took in a deep breath. The bundle of sheets never left his arms, not even after he somehow fell asleep holding what felt like Cas.

He wasn't out for long. The dream he had, one he never wanted to have, brought him back to reality. He was given false hope in the dream, one where Cas was still by his side, still sleeping next to him in the bed, and he could still admire the once angel for being there in the first place. They had an argument in the dream, much like the arguments they had when they were together, and near the end, Dean watched as Cas rose from the bed to leave him behind.

_"But you promised to stay," Dean said to him, but Cas didn't listen; he kept walking. Out the bedroom he went, and soon out the door of the house. Dean didn't know what they argued about, but he remembered hearing himself scream: "Cas, I'm sorry!"_

The bundle of sheets clung to his chest, and for a slight second, Dean thought it was too good to be true. "Cas?" he mumbled tiredly, as though he could feel the angel's arms wrapped around his waist, and he leaned into the bundle. But when he opened his eyes, the bed was still empty, the sheets an illusion, and Dean turned his head toward the door. It was still closed, just like he left it, but the crack in the door was there just in case Cas wanted to come back. He closed his eyes and turned his head back to the empty side of the bed; screw this, he thought.

For some reason, Dean felt angry, pissed off, frustrated, and upset that Cas was gone. Why was he gone? Why did he have to go? He let the sheets fly off his body, the bundle flattening as Dean left the bed, and his feet could feel the cold floor tickle at his toes. Rip the door open, walk down the hallway, stop—Sam was sleeping on the couch again, resting like a baby, and Dean was outside that room. He knew what was inside; he knew it would be the last time he would get the chance to be alone with Cas, more or less (alone with the idea of Cas, he finally argued). He looked over to his younger brother before closing his eyes, feeling the tears pool once more. Another step toward the room would bring him face-to-face with a body wrapped in white material.

He pulled a rocking chair Cas always liked ("It is comforting when reading a book," he said to Dean; "Whatever," he replied) to his side, and he sat down.

He could see the faint black graphic shirt underneath.

He saw the familiar form he grew to know wrapped in silence, still, dead.

Dean felt the folded hands on Cas's stomach through the material one last time.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, before letting his head rest against the still body, his eyes closing to still give life to Cas.

**x x x**

_His eyes were closed. He was stirring at the sunlight trickling into the room. Soon, he felt a light touch on his shoulder. The fingertips tickled at his skin. His eyelids started to flutter open. "Dean, it is almost eight. You should get up now."_

_He closed his eyes once more._

**x x x**

He woke up to Bobby resting a hand on his shoulder; he swore it was Cas, though.

**x x x**

_About three and a half years later, Dean would finally gather the courage to use the entire bed instead of just his side. He would remember it being so cold on Cas's side, but he would say he felt someone holding him close, just like he always did. He would always feel that embrace for the rest of the nights that went by._

**x x x**

"Is there anything you want to say, Dean?"

"No."

"Come on, Dean, not even a prayer?"

"I said no, Sam. Drop it."

"You wanna do the honors, son?"

"No, just—just do it."

"Dean—"

"Leave him be. We'll—we'll see you again, Castiel."

The smoke carried to the sky; Dean just stared into the fire.

That was it.

**x x x**

_Five years would bring a house fire into Dean's world. Sam would stand by his side as the fire burned the house alive, and Dean's first thought was how much was gone. He won't know how it started (electrical, maybe) and will never understand why it happened, but when the fire would cease to burn, he'd go through the ashes to find the charred remains of his lover's life burned alive._

**x x x**

Dean closed his eyes and listened to the silence of his home. It scared him, knowing he couldn't hear someone breathing next to him, and he thought he would get used to the idea of silence after the previous night. Instead, he held onto the bundle of sheets once more and started to whisper.

"Cas," he started. "Hey, Cas," but it was all he could get out.

He fell asleep still hoping he'd hear the door creak open, still hear the small footsteps try to keep quiet, so as not to wake him up, to feel someone rest on the empty side, and feel a tiny kiss rest on his forehead. He wished he could smile.

**x x x**

Sam got him out of the house after the first week of moping around. His younger brother was not about to let him die from drinking himself to a stupor (he couldn't help it; whiskey helped him cope), and he was not about to burn another corpse in such a short time. "Come on, Dean, you need to do something."

"Yeah? And what's that?" Dean was stubborn; he'd rather sit on the couch and have his moment of dreaming where Cas was right next to him and he didn't have to do anything.

"I don't know, the Impala's looking a bit dirty. You could wash it," ah, Dean thought; his other baby. He wasn't about to neglect that pride and joy. He sighed. He did want to do something, and he was getting bored at just clicking through the TV to find something that didn't remind him of Cas ("I like this show," he said to him when they watched old re-runs of Cheers; "This show is very confusing" echoed in his head when he went past some sci-fi show; "I do not understand why people buy from this channel" was another favorite memory when he paused on the QVC channel, which he did buy a small griddle from that channel to make some really good burgers).

He rose from the couch. "Alright, alright, I'll go wash her," he said, seeing Sam give a relieved smile.

"Do you want me to help?"

He shook his head. "You're not allowed to touch Baby," still remembering how much work he had to go through to get her back to normal—as normal as she could be—when Sam drove the car. He shuddered at her being that torn up after an accident. Sam shrugged.

"Alright. I'll be cleaning up around here," he said, motioning about the living room. Dean didn't have to look to see how many bottles of alcohol ransacked the place after just a week, nor did he have to see the dirty dishes and random blankets lying around the room. So he nodded as he walked out the door, going toward his black stallion.

And was she beautiful under the Fall sunshine. He could see the chrome shine from just the perfect angle the sun gave off, and there wasn't a speck of rust on that body of hers. Sure, the dust and dirt collected, but that could be washed off, and she'd be perfect. She'd be back to normal, and he'd take her out to the town to show her off, let her growl and rumble through the streets, and smile that she was all okay, that they were okay, that others could see they were okay. He grabbed the hose from the side of the stairs, unraveling the wheel where it was wrapped, and pulled most of the hose away from the house.

When he got to his pride and joy, he turned back toward the house to turn on the water. But when he did, his eyes scanned over to the small garden next to him. The plants were wilting (partially because of the cold weather), the dirt looked very dry, and—Dean walked past it as fast as he could toward the spigot to get his one job done. He'd get to the garden; he promised. He would take care of it.

With the turn of the small wheel, he could feel the slightly warm water push through the hose. He turned around. Just wash the car, he thought. That's all you have to do. Just make sure the dirt is off the wheels, give her a slight look around in the engine and underneath, get the dirt off her body, and that's it. So that was his mission. He picked up the hose, pushed down on the nozzle, and felt the mist bounce off the hood of the car as the grime started to disappear. As he sprayed it down, as he watched the specks of dust slowly join the dirt under the car, he felt compelled to look toward the garden.

He neglected it, didn't he? He promised.

No, he thought. He'd get to it. Let me take care of her, he thought.

So he sprayed.

And he sprayed.

And he sprayed.

The Impala was dripping with water after he was done, no piece of dirt from what he could see. He was a little soaked from the mists he had to endure from washing her (at one point, the wind came through, causing half of the water to go toward him, and the other half toward Baby), but the hard work was done. He sighed; it wasn't hard work, but keeping his mind on the Impala was hard enough.

_"I think you missed a spot."_

He turned around; the garden was still there, nothing more. He felt the rubber of the hose rub against his fingertips, the warmth of the water still sitting there, and, one by one, he walked toward the garden. A spot on the Impala was okay, it could be washed away; the garden was something else. It needed life, it needed nutrients, and it needed to live. It had to. He promised.

He pushed down the nozzle, uncaring that the mist was hitting his body. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but as the water dripped off some of the leaves of the plants, he could see the life slowly come back, the leaves uncurling from the dry air. And he smiled.

He promised.

**x x x**

_Dean would start hunting with Sam again two years after the fire, seven after Cas's death. He promised Cas he wouldn't, but Cas promised he wouldn't leave, so he would think it was an even trade._

**x x x**

Dean dozed off at 2:56 P.M.

**x x x**

_He remembered Cas reading a book. He never looked at the cover when he was reading it in front of Dean, but his partner in crime would talk to him about it. "Gatsby is holding some sort of celebration," as a passing remark. Dean hummed._

_"A party," he said._

_Cas nodded. "Yes. A party."_

_One night, Cas was getting a little frustrated at the book, going on about how it suggested that the character had some sort of revelation by just staring out toward a blinking green light as he stood on the dock. Dean barely paid attention, but he managed to get the basics. "Fitzgerald is praised for this novel and the style represented through the characters," he started, "but I cannot bring myself to enjoy a part of the novel, particularly this green light the characters associate with."_

_It was one of the few times that Dean noticed the angel actually frustrated at something. He sat across from Cas. "Is that right?"_

_And Cas, mumbling to himself, made no sense to Dean. "As though a green light could symbolize anything like that. It makes no sense," Cas fumed._

_Dean just chewed on his sandwich, and made a snide remark: "Yeah, but what about the color green in general? You've always liked looking in my eyes."_

_Cas watched Dean waggle his eyebrows, but kept his hard stare. "Yes, but that green is pure, as it should be within the righteous man."_

_Dean almost choked on the bread. "You have to stop calling me that."_

_Cas never did._

**x x x**

Dean snapped awake at 3:31 P.M.

**x x x**

Dean placed the plates down on the table in the kitchen, careful so as not to bump into Sam by the oven. When Sam turned around, he frowned. "Dean."

Dean turned around. "Yeah?"

"There's—you put an extra plate on the table."

And there was. Instead of just three (Bobby was coming to visit, to make sure everything was okay, to which Dean said: "Everything's fine. It's not like I'm going to kill myself") there were four. Dean looked down at the table, then shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe Sheriff Mills is coming with."

"Dean."

"I mean, we haven't seen her in a while," they hadn't, "and maybe Bobby invited her over for dinner."

"Dean."

Dean grabbed the plate off the table. It was one of Cas's favorites, too. He always—he always liked eating off of it because of the blue pattern decorating the plate ("It is very intricate, and different," he said, which Dean thought he was relating it to himself; "It's just a plate, Cas. No need to get so attached"). Dean gripped the edge of the plate—he wasn't going to eat off of it anymore. He wouldn't put his fork across the plate and irritate the hell out of Dean because "the food is supposed to go where the fork is, Cas," and he'd reply: "I will move it when you serve the dinner." His favorite meal would never touch the porcelain plate, and not even the clink sound would be made against the plate when he would stab at the spaghetti, as though that made sense to stab at noodles—

Dean chucked the plate against the wall. Sam flinched at the sound of the glass breaking into tiny pieces. "Dean?" He turned around; an old hunter came from the doorway. "Hey, is everything okay?"

Sam shook his head when Bobby looked in his direction; Dean closed his eyes. "Fine," he let out, "It's fine."

The timer on the oven started to beep—just like—like—

**x x x**

Dean shut the door behind him; it was one of the few places where Sam wouldn't go if he was in there. He looked into the mirror. "Dean, you really need to talk about this," his younger brother confronted him after Bobby had left. And he nodded, thinking it would get him away. "I'm serious, Dean. It's eating you up inside. It's not healthy." Another swig of whiskey went down the throat and that was all she wrote.

So he was looking in the mirror. "Maybe you should pray to him."

"This is stupid," he muttered, seeing his lips in front of him mimic what he just said, seeing himself shake his head.

"Maybe knowing he could possibly be listening might help you cope."

He closed his eyes and leaned against the sink. What if he could? What if, at that moment, he was linked to Dean's thoughts and could hear the desperate plea that, somehow, God would complete his family once more? Perhaps making Team Free Will exist yet again? Or, what if Cas was waiting for him to talk to him? What if he had been talking to him the whole time, but Dean was too busy getting drunk enough to forget?

"Uh," he started; he never really prayed before. How was he supposed to pray to a dead angel? Was there a proper way of doing it? "Hey, Cas," he felt awkward. It probably looked awkward, too. "I, uh. I—I hope you're doing well up there," he shrugged; well, there was his first step, and it was a whole lot of crap. Congratulations, he thought; you're on your way. "Hope Heaven's not too boring. Hey, maybe they're getting sick of you up there, what with how much you always bossed me around down here."

He chuckled.

A flood of memories poured into his head, but he continued. "Look, I don't know if you can hear me up there, but—I'm sure you can see me just having a good old time with Sam and Bobby all over my ass about—about all this," he hung his head. He couldn't even say it out loud. "But, uh—if you—if by some miracle you can hear me, I—hell," he was getting frustrated. Stupid Sam, he thought. How the hell was praying going to help with anything? Dean let his head fall back and stare up at the ceiling. "You know what? It sucks, okay?"

No response.

"I mean—I thought I could get through this, you know? I thought burning you—I thought it would end it there," he blinked, "and it probably lasted a minute before you were in that rocking chair, or—I had to water your garden—and I broke your plate because you wouldn't use it, and—damn it, what am I supposed to do?" He leaned away from the sink and threw his hands in the air; he wanted an answer. His hands dropped. "Tell me, Cas."

No response.

"I'm sick and tired of waking up and seeing you gone. And these memories—they—" he needed to lean on something again, "they're the worst thing, Cas. You'd probably tell me to stop drinking so much," which it happened once, when they first moved into the house ("Dean, you do not need to drink that much as a celebration"). He looked down into the sink. "I just—"

He expected something, anything.

But he just closed his eyes and pretended he could hear a "As do I" in reply.

Then the frustration was back. "Screw this." He opened his eyes and looked back into the mirror; stern face, defensive posture—watering eyes. He'd be okay.

**x x x**

Sam let his head rest against the bathroom door. It was hard, for all of them.

**x x x**

_Hunting would continue, but his new house would be built five years after the first fire. He would stay at Bobby's house until the house was complete, but he made sure the house was exactly the same as it had ever been, minus the furniture and finishing. The layout would be the same, the bed in the same spot, books on the bookshelves—Dean really had an inkling for some guy named Foer, and he would enjoy a sister from the Bronte family—and it'd feel like home. Of course, he would replace Cas's favorite Fitzgerald book (Dean would say he hated it, but he didn't dislike it—just wasn't his kind of book) in his honor. He would keep the green covers away from it, though. The only addition to the house would be Sam having his own room. Enough sleeping on the couch, Dean would think._

**x x x**

_THWACK!_

Dean turned around. "You did not just do that, Sam."

And Sam was laughing, another in his hand. "Oh, I believe I did."

A clump of white was hurled in Dean's direction, missing, but hitting the side of the Impala. Dean started to laugh. "Sam, worst mistake of your life."

It ended with Sam's face buried in snow.

When they went inside, Dean was handed a cup of hot chocolate after Sam made a brew for each of them. The younger hunter had snow still stuck in his hair, and Dean could feel the ice in his hair melting from the heat. Their clothes were drenched, hanging downstairs with the other laundry to dry, so now they were in comfortable pajamas. Dean brought the hot chocolate to his lips, moaning at the sweet deliciousness hitting his tongue. He didn't care if it burned it—it was still so good.

"Ahhh," he sighed in relief. "Sammy, I don't know how you do it, but these are always so good."

Sam shrugged. "I'm a genius." Dean rolled his eyes, taking another sip. He hadn't had that much fun in the snow since him and Cas tried making a snowman.

_Bent down, but still on his feet, Dean turned around. Aside from Cas bundled in a dark parka with red cheeks, pink fingers, and a grey scarf wrapped around his neck (okay, so maybe Dean could say he looked a little cute—just a little, though), yeah, Dean could say he wasn't doing well with his project. "No, Cas, you need to roll the snow, not mound it."_

_Cas frowned. "But this snow will not roll."_

_"Then ball it up first, then start to roll."Dean showed him an example; Cas followed suit._

_"Like this?" He held a ball out in his already reddening hand; Dean nodded._

_"Yeah. Nice and firm, like how a snowball should be." He turned back to his ball on the ground._

_"But aren't snowballs thrown?"_

_"Well, yeah, but—" **THWACK!** Dean felt the snow lightly hit him in the back. He turned around. Cas had an innocent smile on his face. "Really?" Cas was already balling up another one._

_"Yes," he replied, sort of sounding smug to Dean. Dean blocked the next one readily aimed at his head, and a THWACK hit on his arm. When he lowered it, he looked Cas right in the eye._

_"That's it," With a pivot of his feet and a spring to his step, he lunged at Cas. It ended with both of them covered in snow, red skin from the bitter cold, and a few laughs shared when they started to brush the snow off one another. Cas and Dean sat in the snow, sitting across from one another, with trembling smiles on their faces._

_"I rather like making snowmen," Cas remarked._

_Dean smirked. "I told you not to mound it."_

Dean set the cup on the table and smiled to his brother. "Thanks, Sam."

"You're welcome, Dean."

**x x x**

He could hear the different tools in the garage spurring through and through. Ah, yes, he thought, it was good to be back in business again. Although, Bobby put him on limited duties, like working on his own car—and that was it, because: "If you don't finish some damn car, you know how much that guy's gonna ride my ass? I ain't wantin' to deal with that." So it was settled that although Dean was back to work, he would only get to touch Baby, and that was final.

It wasn't as though he was down in some deep depression—it had been a month since Cas died, but who was keeping track? The bitter wind reminded him of how much the angel loved winter, though. "It is very beautiful when the snow falls." He shook his head; no, he wouldn't think about Cas at the garage, no matter how many times the angel visited him at the actual business (six—one of which ended with sex in the garage because Dean was working extra hours and no one was around, so why not live in the moment?). He put his toolbox down on the ground near some old junk cars and stared at his Baby.

He frowned. Something was wrong with her. When he was driving her into the garage, he could hear a clunking sound underneath the floorboard. He would get to the bottom of it, he thought. Nothing was going to hurt his pride and joy—and it sure as hell wasn't going to be some loose bit hanging around underneath his feet. So with a couple lifts of the car jack, a slide of some tools on the ground under her body, and his backboard wheeled at the edge, he let himself glide until half of his body was looking up at her car parts.

She was still beautiful, even after all of the beatings she took on the road. Sure, there were scratches and dings and he could see some lodged rocks in some of the parts, but man, he still loved her even with the faults. So he poked around a bit, probably taking an hour to make sure everything was fine and normal. And it was. Hell, he thought, he could probably be a surgeon if he—he closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. No, he would not think about that. Opening his eyes again, he let a few rocks fall from the body and onto the ground, little by little cleaning her up.

Then, he found it. Something had jarred a part of the brakes! He smirked; that smug bastard thought he could never be found. Dean reached up into the brakes and started toying around, trying to get comfortable enough where he could get a tool in there and tighten everything up, and he could— _"You're not supposed to slam on the brakes, Cas."_

His hand stopped twisting and turning into some impossible form. He could feel the loose bolt in his hand, ready to be turned and fixed. But he couldn't fix it, could he? The problem would come back, the problem would always come back, no matter how good things looked, and he could be twisting and twisting at the bolt all the time, but in the end, the problem would always be there, waiting to strike, waiting until it could say "Gotcha" and be the end of it.

He let his hand fall back onto his stomach, and closed his eyes. _"Do you need help?"_

_"Cas, you wouldn't know how to fix her."_

_"I can help hand you tools."_

_"…Yeah, alright. Hand me the wrench—no, not that wrench, the other one."_

_"There are many other ones."_

_"Just—give me that."_

He opened his eyes. Just once, he thought, just once.

He wanted to be left alone.

**x x x**

He stared at the books on the shelf. Dean hated Christmas shopping, and shopping for Sam was a pain in the ass sometimes. He looked down at the list of books he wanted; some of them were familiar, like Crime and Punishment, and something by a woman named Atwood, but he was having a hard time finding them. He looked back at the shelf, reading different titles that ranged from something about the Wild and 1984, whatever significance that made. "Am I even in the right section?" He looked around.

God damn it, he hated Christmas shopping, especially when people were never around to help. Bookstores were never his thing—he always made Cas go to them when Sam asked for books. Or if Cas himself wanted a book. Come to think of it, what would Cas have wanted for Christmas?

He sighed.

He left the section and continued his search.

**x x x**

"Here."

"Oh, we finally opening gifts and not getting plastered by the eggnog?"

"Can't help that it tastes delicious, Sammy."

"Wow, you actually found Camus' work for me. How many times did you have to find a person to help you with these?"

"Shut up."

"Open mine."

"What is it?"

"It's a journal, Dean."

"Sam—"

"No, just—promise you'll write in it, alright?"

"…Fine."

"Here, grumpy, have this, too."

"Oh, now we're talking. Moving Pictures—where did you find this?"

"Music store, Dean. There's one in town."

"And here I thought you didn't have taste."

"Rush isn't my kind of band."

"Music that's good for the soul."

"Yeah, to you."

"To everyone, Sam, god, have I not taught you anything?"

"Apparently not."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Yeah, Merry Christmas, Sammy."

x x x

Dean flicked the small halo on the angel on top of their small Christmas tree. _"You don't want a real one?"_

_"A small one does the same job as a really big one. This is fine."_

_"If you insist."_

"Merry Christmas, Cas."

**x x x**

_"We're just a few moments away from entering into the next year…"_ Dean watched as thousands of people gathered in one spot just to watch a ball drop. He never saw the excitement in the whole thing, but Sam always liked to see the celebrities come on screen and feel as though he were in Times Square—the nerd. "So, what's your resolution gonna be, Dean?"

He never had one, in years past. He never felt like having one, mainly because he was always on the road so damn much hunting things, and taking care of Sam. Besides, he never understood the point of them in the first place. Most of the time, people didn't stay with the resolution and broke it within a week, so really, why make the promise when it would be broken in the first place? He drank the liquor in his glass—Bobby brought scotch over for whatever reason, and it just wasn't the same as whiskey—before he could hear the ghost creep into his ears. Not tonight, he thought.

Dean shrugged. "Haven't really thought about it," he said to his younger brother. Sam turned away from the TV and stared at him.

"Come on, there's gotta be something you want to do, or to better about yourself. You could always give up drinking," and Dean laughed.

"Yeah, when I'm dead."

Sam sighed. "Well, you know, your liver won't think it's very good when it starts failing on you." Dean teased his brother by pouring another drink for himself. "You're a child."

Dean smiled. "Happy New Year, Sammy." He held up his glass toward his younger sibling and down the hatch it went. It wouldn't be the new year until an hour later, of course, but the sounds of people singing Auld Lang Syne made him want to drink as much as possible.

_Low singing started next to him on the couch. He hummed. "'Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?' Should we be dancing along with them?" The former angel looked to his former hunter. Dean shook his head._

_"No, they're drunk, they don't know any better." Cas looked back to the TV and started singing again._

Down the hatch, he thought.

**x x x**

"How do you get by, Bobby?"

"Drinkin'."

"Yeah, how's that going for you?"

"Hey, I'm still kickin', aren't I?"

"You got that right."

"You just gotta occupy your mind, boy. That's all. Don't think about it too much—nothin' you could've done."

"Yeah."

"Besides, I ain't wantin' to be around your sorry, depressed ass with you moping like this."

"Good thing I still have the whiskey."

"Yeah, the horseshit kind."

"Works wonders, though."

"Hey, you guys, get inside, you'll miss the fireworks!"

"Sam, I don't understand why you like this stuff."

_"7…6…5…"_

"4…3…"

"2…"

_"1… Happy New Year!"_

**x x x**

_Bobby would be the next death in Dean's life, fourteen years after Cas died. He wouldn't go out with a bang either—just a really bad heart. He would live a hard and steady life, Bobby, and Sam and Dean would be there to burn the corpse to give him the proper hunter funeral. Dean wouldn't talk about the death much; the whiskey was his salvation from that. Sam would worry about his older brother and try to talk to him, but he was too busy drinking to care._

**x x x**

After a long day at the garage (and hearing stories of the guys hammered beyond belief because of New Year's), Dean wanted to just sit on his couch, have some dinner with his brother, talk about whatever there was to talk about in the news, then sleep the night away. He closed the door to the Impala (that rattling noise bothered him, but he was not about to climb into the snow to help her out) and walked toward the house. He needed to remember to take some of the snow off the roof, and perhaps shovel the small steps so Sam wouldn't slip half the time—

He looked over to the porch swing. The wind could barely move the entire thing, but it rattled the chains from time to time. Dean reached into his jacket pocket; a piece of paper crumpled up to Hell came out. He knew what it said. He knew what voice it would be read in, too. _"Welcome home, Dean."_ Quickly, the paper was stuffed back into the same pocket.

"Yeah," he whispered, seeing his breath fall into the open air. "It's good to be home."

**x x x**

Dean closed his eyes in his bed. "Cas, if you can hear me," he whispered, "I—I just wanted to say hello."

The only response came from the blistering wind from the chilled winter night. Dean tucked himself more into the sheets, still missing the side of warmth by his side. "I never know if you can hear me, and—I gotta tell ya, this is stupid. I probably look crazy. Might be why I'm not getting any numbers from the ladies in town, you know?"

Dean smiled, picturing the glare from Cas when he went to a bar one night ("That is not funny, Dean"). "Everything's fine down here, as fine as it will be," he continued, thinking Cas really could hear him (stupid Sam, he still thought). "I always think a demon will come out of nowhere, now that you're gone. Like you protected me—well, you were my angel, yeah?" He sighed. "You still are, dead or alive."

Before he fell asleep, he wondered if a demon would kill him in the night, or if he'd wake up to another day with not a care in the world in the first place.

**x x x**

A chill in the air rolled right on by. The occupant lying down was afraid. "Dean?"

**x x x**

It was only the wind, they both agreed.

**x x x**

_A few years after Bobby's death (two and a quarter, to be exact), the boys would officially retire from hunting altogether. They would not get bored of it, no, but Dean decided it was time to give up the life on the road, and Sam wanted to settle down with someone he had met on a hunt years ago (but still kept the connection alive, which Dean would call Sam "a sly fox")._

**x x x**

He forgot about Valentine's Day, but he was quickly reminded when he entered the convenient store plastered with little floating hearts everywhere. He was there for toilet paper and maybe some of those candy hearts—they were always a nice treat for anyone. So with a few twists and turns down a few aisles, and a few moments where he had to dodge some old ladies booking it with carts, he was finally able to check out.

"Hello!" She smiled to him; he smiled back. He'd seen her a few times when him and Cas were there to get things at the store. As she scanned the items, she made a comment. "Where's the other man that's always with you? Is that what the candy hearts are for?"

Dean shook his head, a smile still on his face. "Uh, no," he stammered. "He's at home," he had to lie. The girl didn't care if Cas was—he just wasn't in the mood to tell a stranger. The girl nodded in understanding.

"Oh, maybe planning a big dinner for you," Cas usually did that for the day, he thought, although Cas wasn't a romantic—neither was Dean, in any account. "Tell him I say hello," she said before telling him the total. He nodded.

And when he left the register with a quick goodbye, he made a note to himself to never go to her register again.

**x x x**

The day was upon him. Stupid Valentine's Day, he thought. And lo and behold, he was in a bar.

He wasn't complaining—no, really, he wasn't.

Well, there was one complaint. It smelled like sweat and piss in the bar, but hey, a night out with his brother (who wanted to meet someone there because they happened to bump into each other at a store somewhere) plus alcohol never seemed like a bad idea. And it just so happened to that the night wasn't bad at all. There Dean was, sitting at the bar, chatting it up with the young bartender behind the counter every so often when he refilled his glass (sometimes with whiskey, sometimes with scotch, other times with rum), and he felt—he was alright, for the most part.

He could be sleeping—hell, he could be doing a lot of things other than watching the drunks on the other side of the bar fall over and their friends laughing, just as drunk—but every time he seemed to glance at his younger brother smiling and laughing at the woman across from him at the table, he didn't seem to mind. After all, how many times would he get the chance to see his little Sammy all grown up and flirting with women? He brought the glass to his lips and smiled; he'd have to tease Sam about it.

Someone sat down next to him. He downed the drink in his hand and let his eyes glance to the woman next to him. She was young, maybe a few years younger than he was, long, auburn hair, wearing a scandalous yet decent top. She set her glass down (something fruity, he noted) and smiled. "I don't think I've seen you here, mister," she said to him.

He set his empty glass down and smirked. "Oh, I've been here quite a few times. I think it might be the other way around, though," and her smile grew. She hummed. He could've probably called it a laugh, but she didn't seem amused enough at the notion. She turned in the stool, her bare legs brushing against his. Naturally, he turned his attention to her.

"So what brings you here tonight?" Most women asked him that whenever he showed up at the bar. Most women found out he was there with the guys from the garage. Most women walked away when he mentioned Cas.

He shrugged. "Thought I could get some fresh air from home and enjoy a drink or two."

"Or five," she counted, as she scanned her eyes up and down his body. Yeah, okay, so maybe he was getting a little drunk off the whiskey, so what? The bartender didn't seem to care; he just kept refilling it. She leaned against the counter, elbow propped. Her hair fell to one side. "You don't seem like the person to be out right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that right?"

She hummed again, lips together. "Doesn't seem like you've had a good day in a while," and she moved her legs closer toward his, as though she was shifting the position in her seat. He knew what she was doing, he wasn't stupid.

He nodded. "Bad day at work is all," he said.

She smirked. "We all have them." And he agreed—he just felt like he was having bad days over and over again, just for the hell of it, though. "So why not let yourself live a little tonight?" The bartender came to refill his drink, and he turned to him and smiled. It was always the same with the women in the bar: they always wanted him to go home with them. Of course, someone else was at his house, on his mind, as though warning him what would happen if he ever tried to pull a stunt like that—

His hand rested on the rough ridges of the glass, his fingertips gliding over the jagged points. "I'm sure it'd be a great time," he commented, then let his eyes go back to her. She was smiling. And he went back to his alcohol. "But I think I'm just going to sit here and drink my glass."

As he was drinking, he heard her chuckle. And when Dean was about to ask what it was, she answered him anyway. "You know, you're the first one to turn me down in a while."

The burn in his throat wasn't gone when he asked: "Only prey on guys who look like hell?"

Her smile grew. "Give yourself credit, you look great." And, okay, he probably did. He never really gave a crap about how he looked when going to the bar, but Sam asked him to "at least look decent" so of course he obliged. He wasn't well-dressed—old green shirt under a short-sleeved woven, paired with dark denim jeans. He looked okay. He smirked, and she rose from the stool, hand out in front of her. Dean turned his torso toward her again. "It was a pleasure to meet you…" her voice trailed off.

"Dean," he replied, hand meeting hers. God, her hands were smooth, too.

She nodded. "Dean," repeated, as though she would remember. In all likelihood, she probably wouldn't. "Sarah." She quickly spat out. He nodded acknowledging her name. "I hope your work days don't suck too much."

He gave a small laugh. "Hope you find someone for yourself," he replied. When their hands left each other's, he felt the same as if they hadn't touched. Then, in the next second, a paper card was in his hands.

"In case of an emergency," She winked, and turned away from him. He wasn't going to lie, she was very attractive, and if he wasn't—he shook his head and turned back to the bar, back to the drink lying on the counter. He noticed the fruity drink still sitting there though, so when he turned to call and get her back, she was gone. Maybe she ducked into the crowds, maybe finding her friends sitting at a table somewhere. He paid no attention to her; the card was crumpled up the moment he let his hand ball, his drink was already gone, and the bartender had something else for him:

The bill.

He gave the young guy a smile. "You always know when to bring the exciting stuff over."

**x x x**

The woman from the bar smirked, glancing to the ceiling. "Happy?"

**x x x**

_Twenty years after Dean's life with Cas ended, Sam would get married and move into Bobby's old place. It would never be truly abandoned, as the two boys would clean it from time to time, but Sam wanted a place of his own. A few months after he moved into the place, Dean would get a call from him about an addition on the way. Dean would wonder how Cas would have taken the news of a little kid in the family (to which he would imagine it something like: "Kids are beautiful creations of God, but can be a nuisance"). It would be the little thoughts in his head that made him realize he'd never find another._

**x x x**

"I'm going out to get some things from the store," Sam called out to Dean, who was in his bedroom. When he walked out to see Sam off, the younger brother noticed a book in his hands. He smiled, then glanced back up. "Need anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Just the usual," he replied. And Sam knew what the usual was: food, liquor, and more food. A quick open of the door left Dean alone while Sam walked to town, and he himself sat down on the couch. As much as he wanted to turn on the television, he figured he'd actually get some kind of entry into the journal Sam gave him for Christmas, so his brother didn't think it was a waste of money. But, hell, what did people write in a journal (he was not going to call it a diary, because he was not in high school, god damn it)?

Twenty or minutes probably passed before he opened the damn thing for the first time. He unraveled the small leather string wrapped around it, and felt the cover pop open. What a great security system, he thought. He let his fingers slip into the leather covering and open the journal up; inside was yellowish paper, thick, and it smelled like an old book. He stared down at the blank page. Seriously, what did people write in a journal? His dad had one, but that was for hunting. He clicked the pen in his hand.

He thought, and he thought, and he thought some more, but nothing was coming to mind. He leaned back into the couch; he wondered what Cas would write. Probably how his garden was doing, or how Dean was late for supper again because of work. Probably. Dean put the pen to the paper and wrote the date. So far so good, he thought. He was already on a roll. Moving the pen over to the other side of the page, he started to write.

And he didn't realize he'd written an entry until he was completely done, when the whole page was full of words. He didn't read what his thoughts were (truth be told, he didn't even know what he had written down), but he was sure it was something that would upset him.

"Hopefully now it won't," he whispered to himself, realizing he needed a drink.

**x x x**

"First you didn't want to come along a week ago, and now you're bothering the hell out of me by picking foods we won't eat right away."

Dean shrugged.

"Hey, I haven't had a dill pickle in years, Sam. Let a guy live a little."

Sam sighed.

"Alright, put them in the cart."

And Dean happily did, placing the glass jar on the bottom near one of the back corners, so as not to break it somehow. Him and his brother never went to the grocery store together—it was usually Sam or Cas going for the home, and whenever Dean went along, he liked to buy foods that weren't on sale and were impulse buys. Sam didn't mind; Cas always did. _"Dean, if we were to leave right now, would you eat this box of rice right away?"_

_"Well, no, but—"_

_"Put it back."_

_"You're no fun."_

_"You can blame the budget."_

It was true. The budget was about 75 dollars, and while they could get a lot with that money, it was usually the same things over and over—Dean was just adding a bit of zest to the bland food they've had for a long time. What was so wrong with dill pickles anyway? They were delicious, first off—

"Okay," Sam continued pushing the cart down the aisle, a list in his hands. He didn't need a list, who was he kidding? Dean walked next to his brother. "We need some lunchmeat," and he looked up from the list and to Dean.

Dean just had a wide smile on his face.

Sam understood, and sighed. "Go pick out some—" Dean celebrated in his head, walking past the cart and toward the meat somewhere in the store. As Sam turned to go into the next aisle, he yelled: "Don't get a lot!"

Dean would have a problem with that five minutes later.

There was so many he could have! Bologna, turkey, roast beef—he'd definitely have that, he thought. How did people not go nuts in a grocery store! If he wanted to, he could have one of everything on the menu, and then some, and that'd probably be the entire budget right there. And most of it was on sale (20 cents off the regular price, but hey, that's 20 cents going toward something else in his mind)! He looked around; he wondered if Sam was worried about his older brother. Then again, he was probably looking at bread, trying to figure out which brand of white he'd buy.

Dean looked back to the meat. He grabbed the roast beef (easy choice, seeing as how he could smother it with mustard and lettuce and tomatoes and cheese), then looked at the other choices. He wondered which lunchmeats he liked. He tried to remember the best tastes. Cas always made some sandwich for his lunch at the garage, and it was something zesty and tasty, and it was full of mustard, mayo, lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, and then a slab of meat on the bottom piece of bread. And Cas would always—Dean smiled. He'd always hand him the lunch and say, "This is for you, Dean."

Dean looked down at the roast beef package in his hands. He—"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" A voice from behind said to him. He didn't jump. Instead, Dean turned his head.

"No," he denied—he was such a terrible liar, too, "No. I'm just wondering what lunchmeat goes best with roast beef." He let his arm go to his side, his hand flicking the package into the cart. Dean's eyes turned back to the wall.

Sam sighed. "You can talk about it, you know."

"Yeah, I know. There's nothing to talk about."

"Dean—"

"Sam, not right now."

"But, Dean."

"But what?" He turned away from the lunchmeat, eyes on his younger brother, who expressed so much concern because of how Dean was reacting to just lunchmeat. He had to admit, it was pretty pathetic. "What, you want me to cry on your shoulder in front of other people here about how Cas is gone?"

Something jolted through him.

It was the first time he said his name to anyone in months.

Dean looked to the ground, then back to the lunchmeat.

"He'd like turkey, you know," he whispered, reaching for the small package hanging from the hook. Sam nodded. For a split second, Dean gave some thought on looking at the turkey wrapped inside the plastic container, and then it was tossed into the cart, landing next to the roast beef.

"Come on," he said, "let's finish up. I want to go home."

**x x x**

Sam was outside; Dean was alone with the bookshelf. He leaned his head against one of the shelves.

He closed his eyes.

"I got you turkey today," he whispered. "Just…thought I'd let you know."

He opened his eyes.

**x x x**

_Five years after Sam and his wife had a child (they, of course, named her Mary), Dean would be on babysitting duty while the two went out on a long-needed date. As he would be tucking her into Sam's old bed ("You can't sleep with me," he would say to her, after she begged to sleep with Uncle Dean), she would ask: "Can you tell me a bedtime story?" And he would sit down next to her to tell her one he had been wanting to tell for over twenty-five years._

_"Once upon a time, a long, long, long time ago, there were two hunters and an angel living in a house…"_

_It was the first time in years that Dean talked about Cas._

**x x x**

_"Cas, the answer is no."_

_"Dean, we could use pictures—"_

_"I said no! Jesus, we don't need them."_

_"I thought it'd be nice to—"_

_"To what, capture precious moments of us together? Oh yeah, why don't you use that camera now to capture this moment. Something for the whole family to see, us arguing!"_

_"Dean—"_

_"That's what memories are for, you know."_

_"But you can forget them over time."_

_"Yeah, right, how could I ever forget you?"_

_"Do you wish that?"_

_"Just—drop it."_

Dean opened his eyes and let the subtle moonlight cast into the room. His eyes rested on the dresser on the other side of the bed; he remembered Cas pulling that camera in and out of the drawer. He wondered what was on there.

He wondered if there was a picture he could have in order to never forget. He closed his eyes; it was one thing he regretted with Cas.

**x x x**

"That'll be $8.37 for the pictures. I haven't seen a disposable camera in here in a long time. How long have you had this?"

"It was lying around, thought I'd see what kind of pictures were on it."

"Must've been lying around a long time, sir."

"Yeah, just forgot about it."

"Well, I think you'll be happy with them. Here's your change."

"Thanks."

**x x x**

Dean sat on the bed with the envelope in his hands. Why he even turned in the camera to get the pictures developed, he didn't know. It was stupid, and now he was stuck with pictures of—well, he didn't know what Cas even took pictures of—and he was practically tormenting himself with the idea of looking at them. Sam saw the envelope in his hands when he walked inside. "You took pictures?"

"No, I found an old camera lying around." Sam huffed.

"Huh." He didn't question why he needed to go into his bedroom, but Dean needed to be alone, most likely, when he would look at the pictures. Close the door, sit on the bed—so he was sitting on the bed, envelope in his hands. He sighed. Now or never, he thought. He tore the sticky stuff off, feeling it cling to his skin until he rubbed it on his jeans. There weren't many pictures—maybe 20, at most, and the first one was of the lake. And it wasn't as though it was looking out into the sunset (clearly it was the sunset, because the water looked orange), no. Cas had bent over the dock to take a picture of his reflection.

The waves made him look distorted, the camera stuck to his face, his hands holding onto the green gizmo with trying delicacy, his finger on the button, and—that was it. The blue and orange colors mixed together, and the slim shape of Cas knelt down before the fish that were most likely underneath formed into just a distorted image. He wondered why Cas would take such a picture, and what sparked in his mind that would want him to take a picture like that. What was going on in Cas's head?

He flipped to the next image. Scenery—it was of the woods. Picture after picture, it was all scenery, of places around the house, of things inside the house—hell, of the house itself. And they were all taken on random days of the year—a few had snow on the ground, some with rain dripping from the roof, others with the sun beaming down on their home. He thought it would be a waste of time to go through all of them, but he did, and he expected more, and he was getting angry that Cas didn't take one picture of himself, one that—

The last picture stuck in his hands. It was one of him, of Dean. He was underneath the Impala, again, working on her parts because that's what he always did when he had free-time around the house. He was all greased up in his upper body, with his legs sprawled out in the sun. There were tools scattered by his feet, and he was holding a wrench of some kind, digging up into the framework of his Baby. It was right before Cas asked him if he could help him with anything dealing with the Impala.

Dean sighed and put the pile of pictures on top of his nightstand; like he could forget him.

**x x x**

_It wouldn't be long after the story was told (two years) that he'd start to forget about Cas. The doctors would say it was because of his old age, and Dean believed them. He would swear the doctor never aged, though._

**x x x**

Dean fell asleep around 11:42 P.M.

**x x x**

Dean was face-to-face with their house.

The Impala was sitting next to him, same as always. The sun was glowing in the big blue sky, and the garden was vibrant with colors of the plants in the ground. Even the lake in the close distance had sparkling water and calm waves, a rare occurrence in their part of town. He looked back to the house. It was still in the same condition as it ever was, same look, same exterior, probably same interior—so why was he there? He looked around again, searching for some kind of clue, but nothing came by; only the wind seemed to guide him into walking toward the house.

So he did. His feet moved under the seemingly real gravel under his shoes, and all the noises came from the wind whistling in his ears. It was, without a doubt, creepy. Was there something wrong with his house that he needed to understand? Great, he thought, more housework. Each step he took from the stairs made a loud banging sound, the same noise he made every day he came home from work, and the swing next to him rocked just a little. He didn't dwell on it; he just walked into his home, door unlocked and all.

Something was wrong.

Why was the door unlocked? "Sam?" He called out once. Nothing. The screen door behind him shut, the things inside didn't move, and that was it. His words fell on deaf ears, and it was obvious that he was alone. Dean took a few steps inside, looking around. Yep, he thought, still the same as it ever was. The dressers were still in one piece, the table in the kitchen still kind of close to the refrigerator—even the tears on the couch were visible. So he stood there, waiting for something to happen. And it did. The wind outside picked up, and it whistled.

 _"Dean,"_ it whispered. Dean turned his head toward the door; nothing. No, he thought, he would not go through this, not in a dream. He didn't want to hear Cas's voice, he—Dean still stood there, waiting for the wind again. "What do you want me to do?" He called out.

 _"Dean,"_ again, it only whispered. Dean spun, looking in each room that was around. Every once in a while something would flash in and out—someone. It took form. But it never stayed. Why was his mind putting him through that? "I swear to God, if you don't show yourself right now," he threatened, voice cracking. Then, he heard something shatter in the bedroom, and his head quickly turned in that direction. Great, he thought—in our bedroom. He wasn't going to wait any longer; he had been there long enough with some sick trick going on, and he wasn't going to take it anymore. So he charged down the hallway, passing the same table he always did, and opened the door—

A person stood there, staring.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean stared back.

"Cas."

He looked the same as he ever had before the disease.

Dean felt euphoric.

Dean didn't know what to do. He was afraid the angel would disappear the moment he'd start walking, or the house would somehow explode and he'd wake up and everything would be gone, but—it was the first time in months seeing Cas again. It was the first time in a long time where Cas looked healthy and fine. Dean scanned the angel up and down, taking everything he could in; when would the next chance be, if there were a chance? Stupid mind picking his dreams—"I…" Cas started, but Dean shook his head. He closed the door behind him, hearing the latch click shut, and walked toward Cas.

If it were the last time he'd see Cas for good, he wanted it to be a good one. He wrapped his arms around the small frame and held him close. "God damn it, Cas," he whispered, his eyes watering the moment their bodies collided. He missed it, he really did. He could feel the warm breathing trickle down his chest, the small arms wrap around his bulky stature, and he could feel his heart beat as fast as it could, making it harder and harder to breathe with each passing moment that went by just holding him. Dean closed his eyes. "Where have you been?"

"Here," replied Cas.

"You mean in our house?"

"No, Heaven."

Dean's eyes shot open. He was—Cas leaned away from Dean's body, looking up at the hunter. Dean stared into old blue eyes again. "What is the matter?"

Dean frowned. "You're telling me I'm in your Heaven right now? That this," Dean let his eyes flicker around the room, seeing everything he could that was in the real house, in his time, in the room they were in. "All of this, this is your Heaven?" Cas nodded. Dean couldn't believe it; he let Cas go from his grasp. The angel did a slight tilt, but Dean continued. "Why did you bring me here?" Cas noticed the frustration, and Dean knew he would. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, there was no way he could. And Dean wished to be there with Cas, but not like that. Not in Heaven, he thought.

"You do not believe you should be here," Cas finally said. Dean shook his head.

"No, I know I don't belong here. Jesus, Cas, you're supposed to be at peace."

"I am," the angel whispered. Dean shook his head again.

"You're torturing yourself with the memory of our house." It was Cas's turn to shake his head, and he turned to the bed.

"I had found there was no place like home, as you had put it," and Cas sat down on the edge of the bed, inviting Dean as well. The hunter couldn't resist. After all, being in bed with an angel had its perks. When he sat down, Cas placed a hand on top of his; it felt so real, he thought. "I brought you here, Dean." And Dean looked at the angel, trying to get eye contact, but Cas kept his head down, as though trying to remember what it was like to hold onto something real again (which Dean was doing at the same time). "And he said to him, 'Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.'"

Dean looked down at his lap. "Does—Does this mean I'm dead?"

Cas shrugged a tiny bit. "Temporarily. By the time the sun rises on your side, you will be alive once more." Dean felt Cas grip onto his fingers, rubbing the skin underneath his to remember it all before time was up. He realized it was the total opposite of how the other angels treated Cas; Cas died because the sun rose, while Dean would be alive when light broke day.

"So—So why did you bring me here?"

"Your prayers." Dean would have to thank Sam for the idea.

"You actually heard them?"

Cas nodded, as if surprised. "Of course I did. Who else would hear them if they were not directed toward me?" Dean shrugged; well, he certainly knew how to connect with an angel, then. "And I—I could feel your soul was not at rest, Dean. you mustn't worry about me. I am at peace."

"Yeah, well, I'm not." Cas looked up at Dean, who was struggling to maintain his mask, despite wanting nothing more than to let it all go. Cas brought his hand up to Dean's face, and felt the hunter lean into the warmth again.

"I am sorry," Cas whispered. Dean didn't know what to do. He held onto the hand that fed him, leaned into the warm skin that invited him into their world, and he closed his eyes to remember the feeling before time was up. And when Dean brought his hand to the hand on his cheek, they both lowered into Dean's lap, holding on for whatever they could hold. "For what it is worth," Dean felt Cas's forehead lean on his shoulder, probably closing his eyes at the same time, "I have missed you since being in the afterlife."

Dean bit down on his lip. He was sure he would break the skin and bleed blood soon after, but he didn't care. "I—" Dean started, but when he opened his eyes, he couldn't continue. There he was, sitting on their bed, with his partner, and that was it. It was something he never expected to happen again, and it was because Cas missed him. And of all the times Dean missed him? Nothing happened. Dean frowned. "How long have you been up here by yourself?"

Cas opened his eyes. "37 years."

Dean knew time didn't move like it did on Earth—it had only been months of suffering for Dean, and Cas had gone through years. "And you haven't gone crazy at being all alone here?"

Cas shook his head, lifting it from the shoulder to look at Dean in his green eyes—another part he missed about the hunter (there was a whole list he had). "It is quiet here."

Dean frowned. "Yeah, but you're alone. Don't you wish someone was here with you?"

"Someone like yourself?" Cas asked. Dean couldn't deny it. "I will be here for much longer than 37 years, Dean. I have learned to live here for that long, and much longer when I was a soldier, and I can continue to live in this Heaven for much longer than that. Perhaps one day I will gain company."

Dean blinked. "And when's that day?"

"All I know," Cas started again, making sure Dean couldn't say anymore. "is I will hold onto my faith of being reunited. I can never return to Earth, but you are, and always have been, invited into Paradise, along with Sam."

Dean slightly shifted on the bed, making his body turn toward Cas. Cas mirrored him. "So, so," Dean's eyes scanned him again. "You're waiting for me to die?"

Cas shook his head. "You must live, Dean. Do not end your life so abruptly because I am here without you."

"I wouldn't, but—But you're—you're all alone, Cas. The least God could do is give you a few brothers around here." Cas smiled.

"I would probably end in fights with most of my brothers," he replied, and Dean couldn't argue with that. He probably was hunted on Earth until he passed on. There was a brief silence between the two, both of them looking at the joined hands in the middle, both of them wishing they would remember every little detail when the other had to leave. Dean's eyes closed once more, and his hands gripped Cas's as he spoke.

"I'm sorry for—for everything," he whispered.

Cas leaned forward. "You needn't apologize, Dean. You had done nothing wrong."

Dean opened his eyes. "I just—I wish you were still there, Cas. I wish I could—you were still on the bed, sleeping beside me, or cooking, or—even sitting on the swing, I—" Cas moved on the bed, his hands reaching for Dean's face, a palm on each cheek. Dean leaned his head forward; Cas did the same. Their foreheads rested against the other. Dean could feel the calm breathing come from the angel; Cas could feel the stuttering breaths come from the hunter. "I just—"

Cas leaned more into Dean. "As do I," he whispered. It was the response Dean was looking for the entire time, and he sighed. It felt right. Dean opened his eyes to find his angel with his eyes closed, still calmly breathing, although he looked a bit more broken than Dean remembered seeing, judging by the fact there was a gleam of water on his bottom eyelid. And it wasn't as though Dean was teasing him; he figured his eyes were shot to Hell. When Cas did open his eyes, something inside Dean struck a wrong chord in his heart.

He knew what was coming, and he didn't want it to end. He wanted to stay with Cas, stay as long as he could with the angel without going back. He wanted—he wanted Cas back. He heard the ticking of the clock on the nightstand slowly start to fade into the background, as though time in the room started to slow down for both of them. He knew it wasn't the case; he knew the world was starting to disappear. Dean heard a sigh come from Cas's lips; he knew what was coming. "It's time, Dean," and the blue eyes flicker up to meet the green ones scared beyond belief, scared that he'll be alive once more, and Cas would still be dead.

Dean closed his eyes. "I don't want to go back, Cas."

"I know. I wish nothing more than to keep you here."

"Then do it."

"Dean—" And Dean knows he was being irrational. He couldn't die, not then. He had to live on Earth until something killed him, whether it was a demon or not. He felt the breath from the other fall on his lips again, another sigh wracking through his body. "One day, perhaps, you will belong here."

"And you belong on Earth," Dean replied, opening his eyes again. The angel frowned.

"I will be here, Dean Winchester," and one of the hands left Dean to his shoulder, over the handprint scar still charred into his body. It let Dean relax, start to feel another rush of euphoria hit his body. Soon, he thought, the dream would end. "Until you join me," Cas whispered, Dean keeping the eye contact alive, "promise me you will live for Sam and others you may encounter in your life. Do not worry about me, Dean," Dean cannot promise he won't worry about Cas. It is as though the angel imprinted some other brand on his mind. "Be at peace with my death."

They both knew what Cas was trying to say, how Cas had done enough rebelling in his lifetime, how he had done enough for the world and the Winchesters, and how Dean should be sleeping peacefully as well. "How, though?"

Cas let his fingers dig into his shoulder. "Find a way," he whispered, and Dean felt a rush of endorphins start to spiral him out of the Heaven built by Cas. They both knew Dean wouldn't sleep peacefully, not until Cas was back in his life again. He was a hunter, always a hunter, and they knew the hunter never slept until the hunted was captured and ratified. They might have their eyes closed and dream of something only for the wicked, but their eyes are always on the grand prize somewhere at the end of a long, black road, paved only for themselves.

"Will—you won't bring me back here, will you?" Cas frowned.

"There are no guarantees. I can only hope."

Dean closed his eyes; this can't be the end, he thought. Just five more minutes, just give me time to say goodbye.

And he knew he sucked at goodbyes; it was why Cas was the only one to say it in the air. "Goodbye, Dean." It was hardly wanted between the two, and it hung in the air for seconds before someone moved on the bed. Dean opened his eyes to see the tears pool in the blue eyes staring back, and he could only imagine what Cas was seeing (the beautiful green eyes of the righteous man, he thought). Dean felt like he was about to break—he had to deal with losing him again, and it wasn't fair. They both didn't realize how hard it would be to separate again until they were torn apart when time was up.

Dean heard the final seconds tick away, and with each second passing, his body was slipping away from Cas. It was getting harder to breathe in the purified air around, and it was hard to keep focus on the blue eyes still scanning him, still trying to remember everything that he once left behind. Dean heard another second tick; his hands lifted to Cas's face (which Cas remembered how rough Dean's hands were, and hadn't missed that feeling). Another second ticked by—he leaned forward to brush the lips he longed to have in his life again. It wasn't the hunger that drove them into the kiss—it was all but rough. It was his goodbye, his passing farewell, and Cas closed his eyes to relish in the burn the lips leave on his mouth.

Another second ticked by. Cas knew when he opened his eyes, Dean would be gone. The warmth on his lips would linger for all eternity, and it would burn into his memory the rest of the time in Paradise. He would never mind it, no matter how much it drove him insane, knowing he wouldn't have Dean like that until Dean passed away himself. Cas felt Dean slip away, and he dug his fingers into Dean's shoulder once more. The clock stopped ticking; it was enough. The next second occurred, and Cas felt nothing but the cold air once more swirl around his body. His hands fell to the bed, where Dean once sat, and he opened his eyes. Nothing but the familiar sheets; the warmth that once was there was gone.

**x x x**

Dean woke up at 5:51 A.M., welcoming the first day of Spring.

**x x x**

_Thirty-three years would bring Dean into a state where he was on the verge of forgetting everything about Cas. He would remember little memories, but Sam would recall him being stuck in the past for most of the time. "Where's Cas?" Dean would ask._

_"He's dead, Dean," Sam would reply._

_"He—he can't be dead. I'll kill whoever killed him, the son—the son of a bitch."_

_"Dean, stop."_

_"No—No, he was—he was just here…" a broken voice would shake._

_It would bring Dean to tears every time._

**x x x**

He made his bed for the first time in a long time.

He stood under the shower without having to pray.

He went through the whole day without being reminded that Cas was dead and there were memories haunting him.

He sighed in relief.

Baby steps, Dean told himself.

**x x x**

Dean stared down at the food sizzling on top of the oven. They'd have stir fry, because he was hankering for something really good. And Sam had gone to the grocery store some days ago, so why not take the opportunity to cook? "You sure you want to cook? You haven't cooked anything for months now."

Dean nodded. "It's not like I somehow forgot to cook." And he didn't. He splashed some soy sauce into the pan, stirred the noodles, listened to the steak sizzle in the grease, and leaned over the oven to turn it off. It was done. A masterpiece, if he really wanted to be honest. Maybe his brother wouldn't think that, but hey, Dean knew it'd be delicious—what part of "soy sauce" isn't delicious? He could probably down a whole bottle of that if he wanted to without any complaint.

He felt his brother next to him. "Want me to set up the table?"And Dean nodded. The man only had so many hands, as bad as that could be! He put the pan with the steak on a cold burner, and the noodles onto another. The sizzling died down, the food smelled terrific, and he heard the plates clinking on the table as Sam put together the table. And when Dean turned around, his younger brother was smiling back. "Smells good, Dean."

"Of course it smells good," Dean replied back, "I made it."

**x x x**

"'ey, yo, Dean!" One of the guys called out to him as he was pulling away from the garage. "Tell your brother to get off his ass and work for a living!" And Dean waved them off, probably giving them a few profanities back, but he tore out of the garage after a long day. Some guy had the nerve to tell him he knew nothing about cars after he noticed a scoff mark on the white leather seat. The guy didn't come in for a cleaning, Dean told him; he came in for the brakes to be fixed, and he'd be damned if they weren't fixed. The owner of the car, of course, cussed him out, but was glad his car had working brakes again. Saved his life, he thought, as he watched the guy pull out.

As he drove down the road, listening to a Beatles' song come through his speakers from the radio ("Let it Be" was always a classic in his mind, as he hummed along), he wondered what all he needed to do around the house. Probably clean some of the rooms, do the dishes, water the garden, sweep off the porch, maybe do some laundry while he was at it. He leaned back into the seat as he turned into the drive, slowly approaching the house in the distance. The purr of the Impala still rattled under his feet, but he'd fix that in the morning, after a good night's rest.

He sighed and put the car into park. Slowly, the engine stopped purring, and he was outside once more. The music was gone, but he was still humming the sweet tune of "Let it Be." Sometimes, the radio just had great taste, what could he say? He climbed the steps, looked out toward the lake for a brief moment to see the setting sun falling on the calm waves, and he turned back to the house. The porch swing slightly swung, but his eyes tore away to look inside the house. He could see Sam down the hallway picking out something from the table, and he started to sing the part blaring on the radio in the kitchen.

_"And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine on until tomorrow, let it be."_

**x x x**

Dean had a day off from the garage after a few weeks, so he spent it on the porch with Sam. "Don't you have anything to do besides lay around and drink when you get the chance?" Dean shrugged.

"Live like you're about to die tomorrow, Sammy," he held out his glass to whatever he was cheering to, then down the hatch it went. It had been a while since he had a drink—weeks, actually—and the burn of the throat caught him by surprise for a change. Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he took a drink of his alcohol.

"That'll teach ya," Sam joked, as Dean choked. As Dean wanted to tell his brother to shut up, he just let the two of them swing on by, watching the world go running past them without a care in the world for either of them. "Hey, did you know that Sheriff Mills and Bobby found…" and that would be most of the day. They'd talk about nothing in particular, whatever came up, and joke about whatever else was happening in their lives. Dean would mention the garage and what they said to him, and Sam would laugh about something that happened in town the other day. The two of them didn't mind that life; somehow, they both knew it was better than staring death in the face all the time.

Sam let his laughter fade as he looked to his older brother. "You look good, Dean," he said to him. And while Dean made a face, he laughed it off once Sam glared at him. "I mean, something about you—it's like you changed overnight completely from almost a month ago."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I feel pretty good, too," which got a smile from the brother sitting next to him.

"Well, it shows," Sam commented, "I'm happy for ya."

Dean smiled. "Want to have a moment where we hug out our feelings now?"

"Shut up, Dean."

**x x x**

_A year later, Dean would start to forget about Sam and the rest of his life. He would be stuck in the past, just like Sam said, but he didn't mind. Cas was still there; Sam was okay. They were all okay. "Sammy," Dean would call out._

_"Yeah, Dean?"_

_"When do you think Cas will come back to help us with stopping Lilith?"_

_Sam would hear the question every day, but it never failed to bring a slight pain to his chest. "I don't know, Dean," would always be his answer. "Maybe you should pray to him."_

_And Dean would, every time._

**x x x**

Dean fell asleep at 10:20 P.M.

**x x x**

He could feel his feet dipped into the cold waters of the lake, with the waves splashing dangerously close to his rolled up pants (he supposed it'd never happen), and Dean was sitting on the dock, watching the sun set over the land and the stars start to shimmer above. Dean didn't look up, though, to see the numerous constellations floating in the sky; instead, he looked to his right.

"You know, you keep bringing me up here, I'm just gonna have to stay one day," he said to the man next to him. The joke wasn't played off well.

"I hope you do not mind, Dean. I had enough power to bring you up here as soon as I could," he said, the gravelly voice speaking with the wind as it cautiously blew by, the sounds of the waves also hitting his ears. Dean shook his head.

"Where else would I want to be, Cas?" Cas interlaced his fingers together on his lap, balling his hands near his knees. Dean always knew it was a sign of nervousness, or anxiety with the angel. Dean, however, leaned his arms back to let his palms hit the wooden deck, propping himself up to watch the sunset. "Too bad I don't have a rod right now," he commented; Cas turned his head, "I'd catch a fish for you to eat."

Cas raised an eyebrow. "Like the one you caught before I died, only to have it slip from your hands?"

God, even in Heaven he could be a pain in the ass. "Shut up," Dean scoffed off the jab. He saw the faint hint of a smirk before Cas turned away, him, too, looking at the sun before them. "I didn't think suns could set in Heaven."

"Not in all Heavens," Cas remarked. Ah, he thought, that's right; not everyone had the same Heaven. So why did Cas have one with setting suns? "I had enjoyed our conversations on the porch when day was turning to night—" –damn him for reading minds— "—and I wished to share another with you."

Dean leaned forward, wanting to see Cas's face, and what he saw was regret. "Perhaps I should have left you to peacefully sleep," he heard Cas whisper, instantly feeling bad for what he had done (in Cas's mind, Dean seemed mad that he was just sitting on the dock with Cas, watching a sunset—it was hitting close to a chick-flick moment). Dean looked down at his lap; the hands were not fidgeting or anything, but one finger was itching the one next to it, and Dean saw it as a sign of his nerves flaring.

Then he looked back at the house. "Sam's not here, right?"

Cas turned to Dean, confused. "Why would he be?"

And Dean shrugged, turning back to the settling waves. "No reason," he noted, watching as the water grew darker and darker with each passing second. Cas went back to his nervous twitch, and Dean knew to take some kind of action.

He knew what always calmed him down, and it was holding onto Dean's hand. Dean moved closer to his angel, former angel, whatever he wanted to be called, and held out his hand. Cas's blue eyes scanned over to the rough skin offered, then up to Dean's green eyes. Dean wasn't looking at him, but Cas could see the want inside the green, the water about to start pooling, just like the lake. Back to his hands—he felt them itching for freedom. So Cas let his hands separate so he could feel at ease—it was much better than his nerves trying to pin him down. He felt the hunter next to him release a sigh of relief, and their fingers gently wrapped around the other's hand.

Cas looked up. "You're lonely, Cas," he heard the tough voice next to him say, "and you wanted some company, right?"

When Dean looked up, he saw the angel nod. "It has been—difficult—living here." Dean could tell; the angel looked tense and down.

Dean slowly blinked, a small smile gracing his face. "Hey, man, I get that. I wish I could teleport you down to Earth when I feel this way, though," and Cas frowned. He felt guilty that he was being selfish— "But don't feel bad." Cas wondered if he, too, could read thoughts (that answer was no). He felt the hunter inch closer next to him, nestling against his leg—it felt safe. Cas, too, moved closer, his eyes gazing up to meet Dean's once more. "I don't mind the company here."

Cas smiled. "Neither do I," he replied. The green eyes trailed to his shoulder; Cas's smile grew.

"And don't feel like you're ever alone. I mean," a huff of air breathed out, and Cas usually called those some of Dean's silent laughs, "you can hear my prayers and everything, and then some." Cas knew what he was talking about (Dean felt a little warm after the comment). "I'm always here with ya, and—when the time comes, I'll be here."

Cas let his fingers squeeze Dean's hand (and Dean repeated the notion), and with a final gaze into each other's eyes, he turned back to the sunset at hand. Slowly but surely, the sun was disappearing, but it'd come back. The light would always be there, waiting for the two of them, guiding them through life one step at a time. "I'm glad," Cas replied, closing his eyes in content.

Dean took one look at Cas, who was relaxing, then back to the sun out in the distance. The oranges and the blues were mixing above, the stars were barely twinkling away, and the waves were dying off one by one. Dean closed his eyes.

He was, too.

**x x x**

Dean woke up at 6:09 A.M.

But he didn't lay there to welcome the day.

Instead, he threw the blankets off his body to get onto his feet, opened the door to start walking down the hallway just to open yet another door, and stepped outside so he could see the lake near his house. He heard Sam say "Dean?" as he was walking out the door, but he wasn't going to stop. Cas was still there; he knew he was. The cold, wet ground after he stepped from the porch sank into his toes, but for some reason, he kept walking through the mud toward the water, hoping that the empty dock was just a trick on his eyes, that somehow, an angel was there, perhaps stooped on his shoulder ("Dean, that is preposterous").

If he had any neighbors, they would have made some ridiculous comments about what he looked like on the dock. First off, he wasn't wearing any shoes. No slippers, nothing—why bother, right? He was wearing boxers for pants (which wasn't hiding a thing), a t-shirt that fit him just fine, and his hair was tussled in different directions. Whenever Dean climbed out of bed, and Cas was up before him (it was rare, but it happened), Cas would take one look at him and then smile. "I believe this is what Hell looks like to humans," he'd say. And Dean would yawn, acknowledge the line, then give a sleepy smile.

"It's a good Hell when you're eating pancakes for breakfast," which was true, he always liked pancakes after a good night's rest—among other things.

But Dean didn't care what he looked like. He gazed out into the lightening sky before him, the dark night starting to fade. The stars were barely twinkling, the moon was melding in with the dark blue colors far away from the approaching light, and the waves were just about to start to pick up a bit from the cool wind sitting in the air.

Something dawned on him: a light was coming over the horizon, the day breaking before him, and he was staring out at the light shining over the fields and lake in front of him. Dean may have only paid little attention to what Cas discussed before with that frustrating book of his, but after somewhat skimming the novel himself (what better way to spend time relaxing than picking up a book, he thought, especially one Cas seemed to enjoy so much), he understood it. _It_ had just smacked him in the face— _it_ was right there the whole time, peeking out all along. Dean looked up to the sky.

"Cas I know you can hear me," he said to the passing clouds above. He searched to find some bright star above that was destined to be the angel (unfortunately, none of them were bright, and he was wrong anyway), and his eyes stayed focused on the sky. "Maybe you're with me on the dock right now, maybe you're floating on some small cloud right there with the stars, I don't know, but you got to listen to me right now."

_Cas looked up at Dean. "I always listen to you."_

Dean's mouth frowned, his eyes expressing the pain he felt for months. "Cas, when you died—it was hard. I kept thinking you'd come through the door and we'd have dinner together and nothing had changed. But—man, Cas, it was so different. It wasn't the same. It just—sucked, and—"

Dean wasn't sure if he was making any sense, but he continued anyway. "—And I tried so hard not to mourn your death as much, Cas," his voice started to break, "and I just wished—I wanted nothing more than you here, you know? Just like how you want me up there."

_The angel gave a small smile. "I know."_

"You remember that book you were reading, the one with the guy on the dock?" _Cas nodded. How could he forget? It still irritated him._ "I'm Gatsby, Cas. Right here, right now, I'm—I'll never get over your death, Cas. I'll never be the same without you, and," Dean closed his eyes, bending his head down toward the wooden planks beneath him. A small smile graced his face. "as much of a chick-flick moment this is," a small choke, "to quote The Scorpions, there's no one like you—Sam, maybe, but," he was making it very light-hearted. _The angel smiled._ "I'm not dating him any time soon."

 _A hand reached out to touch the light fabric beckoning him on the dock, to pull someone closer. The hand tried to rest on the shoulder, but failed._ Dean felt the wind pick up. "But," Dean whispered. _The angel stared._ "knowing you're okay, knowing—knowing you're not—that the pain you had to feel, Cas, that—what they did to you," Dean closed his eyes again, feeling a knot in his chest tighten. Some nights, he couldn't sleep because of that thought of Cas experiencing so much pain before his death. When Dean opened his eyes again, there was a bit more light in the world.

He steadied his breathing; he'd get through it. _A comforting hand tried to wipe his eyelid full of water; it failed him._ "Knowing that you're up there, Cas," he finally whispered, "that—you're waiting, well," he looked out toward the sunrise. The sun was slowly creeping its way into day, slowly rising above the horizon giving new shadows across the land. Dean smiled. "Somehow, we'll get through this, Cas. You and I, partners in crime again," a smirk fell on his face just thinking about it. "That's hope, right? Just like—" Dean looked down into the water; he swore he saw another reflection. _So did the angel._

"So I'll fight, Cas. I can't—it may be tough some days, but I have to start moving on, right?" _"Right," said Cas. "I wish nothing more than your happiness, Dean."_ "You gotta fight alongside with me, you gotta promise—promise we'll get through this," he said. _The angel accepted the promise before it was asked._ Dean went back to the sun. "We can only hope," he whispered, turning around toward the house. _The angel itched at his fingers, but did not break the stare the hunter gave._ Instead of walking, he just stared out into the emptiness.

_Cas nodded and smiled._

Dean spread his arms out to his sides, palms facing the house.

_The angel spread his wings far and wide, white feathers sprinkling the clear lake under him, fluffing out in all directions._

They both closed their eyes and took flight.

One made a splash.

The other created the waves.

**x x x**

It started out slowly.

But he'd be okay.

He promised.

**x x x**

_Thirty-five years after Cas died, Dean would join him._

**Author's Note:**

> Barman: angel of intelligence  
> Heman: angel leader of the heavenly choir, whose name means "trust"  
> Sophia: angel whose name means "wisdom"  
> Leo: angel who thwarts demons  
> "Sid": Nickname for the angel Sizouze, who is the angel of prayer  
> Posteria Fossa: contains the fourth ventricle, cerebellum, and brain stem


End file.
